SUMMERHALL AND WHAT HAPPENED AFTER
by Deco
Summary: It's embarrassing when you need to ask the man you discarded five years ago for help.
1. Chapter 1

SUMMERHALL AND WHAT FOLLOWED AFTER:

CHAPTER ONE:

"What do you mean, you don't know where he is?" Arya said. "I thought you knew everything!"

"There are no ravens beyond the Wall," Bran said.

"Beyond the Wall?" Arya asked. "I thought he was _at _the Wall. With the Night's Watch – that was his sentence, wasn't it?"

"There is no Night's Watch anymore," her sister Sansa interjected. "It was gutted by the War, and then it just gradually disintegrated. Castle Black is deserted."

"Deserted?" Arya asked. "Where did they go?"

"North," Sansa said. "Not all at once. Jon, however, never even stopped at the Wall. He crossed the Wall with the Wildlings and never came back. The rest of them went bit by bit. They couldn't go South, obviously."

"As long as he stayed there, I had no objection," Bran said, a shrug in his voice. "I could sense him there for the first year or so, and then he disappeared. Not all at once; gradually. I didn't really notice it at the time it was happening."

"Perhaps he's dead then," Bron said, from the other side of the table. "Good thing if he is."

Arya bristled, and she glared at him.

"Don't give me that look, little wolf," Bron said to her, amused. "It's what everyone around this table would prefer, only they're too tight-arsed to say so directly."

The other members of Bran's Small Council muttered resentfully, but no one seemed to deny it, Arya noted. Well, with the exception of Ser Brienne, who shook her head.

"When did you last hear from Jon?" Arya asked her brother.

"I've never heard from him at all," Bran said. "Not since we saw him off to the North." _He makes it sound like Jon was going on a pleasure trip._

"You weren't concerned by that?"

"Why should I be?"

Arya gave it up. "Have you sent anyone beyond the Wall to talk to him?"

"No," Bran said. "We've been busy."

"Lord Hand?" Arya tried again.

"Not I," Tyrion said. "I didn't think he'd be interested in hearing from me."

Bron snorted with laughter. "You might well. But you did make a mistake there, Tyrion. You should have arranged for a quiet assassination as quickly as possible. Keep the Dothraki and the Unsullied happy, and remove an armed and angry bastard from behind you."

"What makes you think he's angry?" said Tyrion.

"Silence is not golden," said Bron. "In this case, it's hostile."

"Sansa?" Arya turned to her sister. "You're closest to the Far North. Have you heard from him?"

"No," Sansa said. Something in the furtive way she said it warned Arya off.

"Just one big happy family!" said Bron, with a nasty grin.

"Davos?" Arya asked quickly. "You were his Hand. Have you been in touch with him?"

"No," Davos said. He fidgeted in a way that suggested discomfort.

"A loyal man!" Bron sneered.

"I managed his resurrection," Davos said. "If that wasn't loyal, I don't know what was."

"You had to do that," Bran said in his dead voice. "Otherwise the rebel Night's Watch would have killed you."

Since it was his King was contradicting him, Davos said no more.

"Maester?" Arya said to Sam Tarly. "What about you?"

"No," Sam said. If Davos had been apologetic, Sam's tone was defiant.

"So much for so-called friends," said Bron. Arya devoutly wished he'd shut up.

"I arranged for his election as Lord Commander, didn't I?" Sam said. "Yes, he helped me when I first went to the Night's Watch, but I paid him back."

"By ensuring that he was elected to a post that he had neither the experience or the expertise, besides being far too young," Bran said. "And you did that because Alestor Thorne would have done for you if his candidate had been elected. The result was fairly predictable."

"I was sixteen years old myself then!" Sam cried. "What else could I have done? They wouldn't elect _me_! It had to be Jon!"

"Indeed," said Bran.

Arya could see that Sam was angry, but like Davos, under Bran's eye he said no more.

"Then no one has heard from him in five years?" Arya said, looking around the table.

There was a discreet, reluctant cough.

"Sir Brienne?"

Brienne face was red. "I did send him a letter, about six months after he left. I just wanted to say – I just wanted to tell him that I thought he had done the right thing, and was being unfairly blamed. Like Jaime was, with King Aerys."

There was quite a long silence.

"And did you get an answer?" Arya asked, finally.

"Yes," Brienne said. "He did send me a letter."

"You still have it," Bran said, looking at her.

"Yes," Brienne said, getting redder.

"Fetch it, then," said Bran, as much as he might speak to a dog, if he had one.

Brienne fetched the letter, obedient as ever. Bran unfolded it and read it aloud.

"Dear Sir Brienne:

I wished to contact you and thank you for your kind letter. It meant much to me to receive it as I have heard nothing from anyone else south of the Wall. I was happy to hear of your appointment; I can think of no one who deserves it more than you, and will give more faithful and loyal service to my cousin.

I have been asked by Tormund Giantsbane to give you a message on his behalf. He made me swear to write exactly what he said, and I was obliged to promise that I would. Please understand that Tormund does not wish to hurt you; on the contrary, he has the greatest admiration for you. But he is a man who says what he feels. He says to tell you that he was sorry to hear that prancing nancy-boy disappointed you, but what can you expect of a sister-fucker anyway. Tormund proposes that you marry him, and he believes that you and he would have amazing children that would rule the world. You would never want for anything he could provide, he says. I hope you are not offended, Tormund is a rough soul, but also an honourable man who means well. I know of no other man worthy of you.

Regards, Jon Snow"

"Oh, yeah, he's pissed," Bron said. "Six months in, you say? Yes, that was easily long enough to realize he'd been had."

"Excuse me," Tyrion said. "I did not deceive him."

"Sure, you did, Tyrion, not that I blame you in the slightest. If he was stupid enough to fall for your line, it was entirely his own fault. But the fact is, you conned him into killing that silly dragon cunt, something that everyone around this table wanted to happen, but didn't have the guts to do themselves."

The Small Council muttered resentfully once again. Once again only Brienne shook her head.

"And then, you made sure he took the fall, and everyone else happily divided the pie. Charming."

He noticed Arya glaring at him, and added: "And don't exclude yourself from that number, little wolf. You happily buggered off for five years, and left the sorting of the wreckage to others. Nobody here should take any criticism from you, if ask me ."

Arya restrained herself with difficulty, helped only by her uncle, Edmure Tully, who said: "The letter doesn't seem angry to me." Arya wondered yet again how the son of Hoster Tully and the nephew of Brynden Tully could be so damn stupid.

Bron snorted. "First two sentences," he said. "And he refers to his Grace as his cousin, not his King. Ends by saying that a dirty savage is the only honourable man he knows. He's pissed."

"You do him too much credit," Sansa said. "Jon says exactly what he means."

"Well, it means he isn't going help us, for sure, unless we offer him a great lot of money for the privilege. And if the books are correct, there's no money available to be offered. Of course, we could offer him the money and then not pay. We could see just how stupid he really is."

"Jon wouldn't do it for money," Sansa said, contemptuously, though whether of Jon or Bron – or both – Arya couldn't tell. "You'll have to convince him it's for the greater good."

"Well, we might be able to do that if we could contact him," Bron said. "But we can't."

He looked at Brienne a moment, and said: "How did you send him your letter?"

"I sent it by crow, and he answered the same way,," Brienne said.

Everyone looked at Bran, who shrugged. "That was four and a half years ago," he said. "Four years ago, the Wildlings started killing crows and cleared the North of them."

"And you weren't concerned by that?" Arya cried.

"Why should I be concerned?"

"They're obviously wanting to hide something from you, Bran."

"I doubt it," Bran said. "What have the Wildlings to hide?"

Arya glanced at Sansa, who was rolling her eyes. _What good is knowing everything that's going on if you know so little about life that you can't interpret the information properly? I think we're in trouble._


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO:

_Four and a half years ago._

Jon had never seen Summerhall before. His father had been born there; his great-great grandfather, his great-great-uncle Prince Duncan the Small, and Ser Duncan the Tall had all died there. Jon wondered if it hadn't happened - would things be different? Probably not. Aegon V seemed to have more sense than to try to revive dragons, but Jon understood exactly why he had chanced it. Dragons were a game-changer.

He didn't really know what he was doing here. If he were caught south of the Wall, he would most certainly be executed, as an exasperated Tormund had pointed out to him, just before he had left the Far North. He knew that for truth; and in fact not so long ago, he had vowed never to go South again. But night after night of the most terrifying dreams made him change his mind. And he had broken vows before in his life, and more than once.

In the first dream, he saw the death of the Night King, in graphic detail.

The second dream was his own murder of Daenerys Targaryen, repeated so many times that he felt like begging for mercy rather than see it again. Each time, as it started, he was sure he could stop it, change the outcome, convince her that she had done the wrong thing. He wouldn't kill her, he wouldn't have to take her life. She would see reason. And then the bells would start to ring, and he could hear his heart beating so loudly in his ears that he could hear nothing else. Nothing that Daenerys was saying, in any case. And then his dagger was in her chest, and her lifeblood spurted all over him, splashing into his eyes and mouth, and over his hands. The last dragon was screaming, and Jon was screaming, too.

Perhaps the Old Gods heard his pleas, because the next dream was the death was Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. This was easier to bear, since he had never known Rhaegar, so that the death was upsetting, but not to the same extent as its predecessor.

The next dream was his mother's death at the Tower of Joy (he was unable to eat anything for days after watching it). That one visited him for some time. He was afraid to pray for relief lest the Daenerys-dream be substituted. So he endured it.

But the worst one of all was the Tragedy of Summerhall, which followed his mother's death in the sequence, and stayed with him, repeating itself every night. He awoke just as the the wildfire was spreading over the palace, and consuming what seemed to be hundreds of people, who shrieked horribly in close up, begging the Seven for their lives. The Seven never answered.

After nights of that same dream, the Wildling spearwives had produced a vial of milk of the poppy, and given it to him. Jon was touched, since he knew they must have paid a good bit of money for it. He was also practical; if he woke up every night screaming, no one else got any sleep, either. The milk of the poppy had helped at first, and then the dreams had returned, the sequence repeating itself, and then once it arrived at the Tragedy of Summerhall, repeating _that_, over and over and over again.

At soon as Jon crossed the Wall, the dreams lessened, until only the Summerhall one remained. Jon knew he had to go to the site of the dream, but he did not know why. Well, not for sure; but he feared that the most likely explanation was that Bran had lured him south of the Wall, and into a trap.

He had travelled slowly, partially because he was exhausted, and partially because he did not want to attract attention. He left Ghost at home for that reason. He dressed in smallfolk garb, rode the sort of steed no one would want to steal, and spoke to no one unless he could not avoid it.

When he arrived at Summerhall, he could see no one. Nothing except desolation. The Tragedy was by now far in the past, but its scars still lay heavy on the landscrape.

Looking around, he saw that the fire had been very hot; though the outline of the summer palace was still visible, a good portion of the masonry had simply melted, as the people had in his dream. Jon knew the signs of wildfire. Trees and shrubs and wildflowers now grew in the crevices, but none of them looked vigorous. It was as if the fire had blighted them, too, though it had raged decades before they had even seeded. Perhaps an element in the wildfire had caused it; Jon wasn't sure. He kicked a stone out of his way, and brittle, it shattered.

"Don't be so clumsy, boy!" a voice said.

Jon looked up and saw a woman, very small, very pale, and red-eyed - standing before him. An albino, he thought, like Ghost. She was leaning on a black walking-stick, and scowling at him. Six months ago, he would have apologized for doing nothing much, but now he no longer cared.

She studied him. "Jon Snow," she said.

He didn't answer.

"I was hoping you'd come here," she said. "I've long wanted to meet you."

Still Jon said nothing. He didn't even feel curious, just very tired.

"Still mourning the Dragon Queen?"

Jon knew that she was trying to get a rise out of him. He was equally tired of being manipulated.

"Why did you kill her, then?"

Explain yourself. Justify what you've done. The irresistable invitation, for most people, but Jon was unmoved. He made no answer.

The woman's eyes narrowed.

"Speak!" the woman cried.

Jon sat down. He felt exhausted.

"I didn't ask you to sit!" the woman was angry. Jon noticed with interest that she was losing control. All because he refused to speak. _I'll remember that one next time. If there is one. Because I feel like curling up amongst these melted stones, and sleeping forever.  
_

The woman came closer, staring at him.

"Aerys' get," she hissed. "As mad as he was, I daresay."

Some days Jon felt that way, that was certain. Then he wondered if she was actually referring to him, or Daenerys.

"You look more like Betha Blackwood," the woman said. "Prince Duncan did, too."

_I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care..._

"The Starks are descended from the Blackwoods, too, of course," the woman said, scanning his face. "They told me you looked like a Stark, but you don't. You look like a Blackwood! I didn't expect that!"

She seemed excited. Jon just wished she'd stop talking.

She knelt beside him and took his hand. Jon had thought she was a ghost, but her hand felt warm.

"What's wrong with you, boy?"

_I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care...  
_

His head went down, slowly, until it hit something solid and he forgot he was alive.

"...what's wrong with him?" It was the small woman again. Someone had put something soft - a cloak, Jon thought - under his head.

A hand touched his forehead.

"Magic," another voice said. "Very strong, but ill-wrought."

"He didn't say a single word to me," the small woman said, in a disgruntled voice.

"I expect you surprised him," the other voice sounded amused.

Jon opened his eyes.

The small woman looked down at him, as did another, taller woman muffled in a dark cloak.

"With us again, are you?" the latter said. Her eyes glinted in the shadow of her hood. Jon could not identify an accent in her voice.

Jon tried to speak, but his throat seemed closed.

The taller woman knelt down, and gave him a drink from her goatskin. The water tasted like cold crystal, and Jon gasped.

"I see that you are, good."

She hauled him to a sitting position, but Jon could go no further. She gave him another drink, which seemed to help, and he leant back against a tree trunk, panting a little.

"We are very glad to see you," the taller woman said, sitting down beside him. "Though I must say that you took your time about it."

"I'm not supposed to be south of the Wall," Jon said.

"Don't worry. The Raven can't see you here, and neither can _his_ ravens." To Jon's surprise, she laughed.

"How can you be sure?" he asked.

Her eyes glinted again. "I'm sure, or I wouldn't have summoned you here."

"_You_ summoned me?"

"I did indeed. I wanted to talk to you, privately."

"Nothing is private in Westeros. Not any longer."

"That's not at all true, but of course, the Raven pretends otherwise." She laughed. "And he convinces people of it, but it's largely sleight of hand."

"Why tell me, then? Tell someone who cares. I don't live in Westeros any longer."

"You should care, Jon Snow," the taller woman said.

Jon closed his eyes. He was already sick of this conversation.

The smaller woman kicked at the bottom of his foot. "Pay attention!" she shouted.

Jon opened his eyes, but he said nothing, looking at her blankly.

"What sort of magic is it?" she said in a low voice, glancing in the taller woman's direction.

"Dark Magic," she replied. "With some Blood Magic mixed in. But as I said, not well done."

To Jon, she said: "Your cousin didn't intend you to survive very long."

"Very likely," said Jon, bored. He sensed another attempt to manipulate him.

"You don't believe me?"

"I don't care," said Jon, struggling to rise. He just managed it. "You summoned me, you say. How?"

"The Raven's not the only one with magic," the woman said.

Jon remembered Melisandre, and her magic, which had been allied to an unpleasant obsession with burning innocent people to death. _She should have been Queen of Westeros herself, she had all the necessary predelictions. Of course, she also resurrected me. Another thing she should have left well enough alone._

"You put up quite a struggle against the magic, though, I was surprised."

Jon didn't answer. They wanted to tell him something, and he decided to just let them get on with it.

"I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. You're descended from the two great houses in Westeros that had magic. And you have both types, the wolf magic and the dragon magic. But they fight each other instead of working together."

"And you're going to help me fix that, and achieve greatness," said Jon. "Or something. I've heard that story too many times before. In different ways, and from different people. I'm not listening anymore. Leave me alone, witch. I want to go home."

The taller woman did not seem offended, but Jon knew she would be careful not to, in any case. Not if she was trying to lure him down a certain path.

"You should listen," she said. "You think you betrayed Daenerys Targaryen? You've betrayed your country more. You've delivered it to rulers unworthy of it - twice. And all because you didn't want the responsibility of becoming King of it yourself."

"Next you'll tell me there's a prophecy," Jon said dourly. "They always do. My father believed all that shit, and see where it got him. None of the prophecies they fed him turned out to be true. They weren't even self-fulfilling."

He turned to the smaller woman. "That prophecy you made, the trouble it caused! And in the end it wasn't even true. Azor Ahai wasn't a descendant of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryan, she was a Stark."

The taller woman laughed. "I see you know who she is."

"The Ghost of High Heart," Jon said.

The small woman laughed, too. "You think Arya Stark is Azor Ahai, you foolish boy?"

"She killed the Night King," Jon said.

"You remember the sleight of hand I mentioned?" the taller woman said.

"Vaguely," Jon said.

"That's part of it. She did kill someone, but it wasn't the Night King."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE:

Half a moon after the Small Council meeting, Arya, rather to her surprise, found herself preparing for an expedition to North of the Wall. She had most certainly not wanted to go, and suggested Sansa go in her stead. Her sister refused outright.

"You live closer!" Arya said.

"You do remember our last meeting with Jon, Arya?"

Arya nodded, but in fact she remembered very little about it barring Jon's utter distress.

"I apologized to him, and he ignored me," Sansa said.

"You're lucky he had that much restraint," Arya said.

Sansa slapped her, hard, and Arya slapped her back, just as hard. Though Sansa was taller, she was the one who stumbled back.

Arya watched her recover herself.

"Easy for you to say," Sansa said, her eyes blazing. "I was the one who won back the North! Jon would have lost the battle if I hadn't called in the Knights of the Vale! But they named _him_ King, not me! A complete fool and not even a real Stark!"

"...and not under the sway of Littlefinger..." Arya said.

"I wasn't!"

"You were," said Arya. "You still let him manipulate you, ever after the battle. You nearly arrested me, until Bran convinced you otherwise."

Sansa was breathing hard. "You remember what Mother always told us?" she said. "A bastard will scheme and scheme against his true-born siblings and take your patrimony from you, and that's exactly what Jon did!"

"The patrimony actually belonged to Bran, if memory serves," said Arya. "You took Bran's patrimony, Bran took Jon's, and Jon got nothing but exile in the Far North. "

"Did you know that Rob disinherited both of us?" Sansa said suddenly. "I saw the Will he made after Bran and Rickon were supposedly killed. I got nothing, and you got nothing. Like we counted for nothing. He left the North to Jon! To a worthless bastard!"

"As it turns out, he's not a bastard," Arya pointed out. "And he was scarcely worthless. Someone had to kill the Dragon Queen."

"His support allowed to her to get power!" Sansa said.

"I think fire-breathing dragons had rather more to do with it, Sansa."

"Oh, you won't listen! But Bron's right. You talk a lot, but I didn't see you do anything to help Jon. You boast so much about your assassin training, but you didn't kill Daenerys! Why not?"

"Because I wouldn't have got out of it alive," said Arya. "In fact, I'm surprised Jon did. I suppose that's why Bran wants his help now."

"He won't help," Sansa said. "Not this time."

"In the Small Council, you said he would if he could be convinced it was for the greater good. So which is it?"

Sansa started sobbing in a way that warned Arya that she was overwrought. She found a goblet and poured some wine into it, and then shoveled Sansa into a chair. "Drink up, and stop snivelling."

Sansa took too large a gulp, and started coughing. Arya patted her back, rather gingerly.

"What's wrong? I got the impression things were going well at home."

"That's what I tell everyone, but they aren't," Sansa hesitated, and then continued: "It wasn't too bad at first. I had a fancy coronation, way too fancy for a ruined country, but I felt I needed the trappings of power to get respect. Cersei always said - " she broke off.

"Here we go," sighed Arya. "The wit and wisdom of Cersei Lannister, as well as the political dictums of Petyr Baelish. Those two snakes convinced you that everyone who doesn't think like them is stupid. I might remind you, Sansa, that they're both dead, after causing more grief and trouble in Westeros than Daenerys Targaryen ever even thought of."

"I miss Petyr," Sansa said, in a forlorn voice. "I hated him, he treated me terribly, and I miss him."

Arya felt the hair rise on her scalp. "You don't mean that," she said.

Sansa sighed. "Not really, I suppose. It's just that...I'm so alone. I can't trust anyone. Cersei always said - she said I was a fool. She was right, too, I was foolish. I learned better, she taught me, and Petyr did, too; but I think I was happier before I did."

She looked up at her sister. "You thought I was a fool, too."

"Damn right I did," Arya said. "And you were. That was mostly Mother's fault, and that damned Septa's."

"It was my fault," Sansa said. "You know something, Arya? I know exactly how Daenerys felt. Like she wasn't important, she didn`t count for anything, and they only tolerated her because of the dragons. She wanted love, and they didn't even respect her. I might have done exactly the same thing in her place."

"You would never -"

"I betrayed Father!" Sansa hissed. "Because I wanted to marry Joffrey, I betrayed him! Do you think I couldn't massacre a city after that? I could!"

"Sansa -!"

"I was alone for so long. A Stark shouldn't be alone, Arya. It's so bad for them. Look at you - you were so cold to me when I finally saw you again. I knew it was because of Father."

"It wasn't that - I didn't blame you -"

Sansa wasn't listening. "And Bran! He was the nicest little boy, remember that, and look at what he's become! He doesn't care for anyone."

Arya could hardly disagree with that statement.

"The only one who didn't seem affected was Jon," Sansa said. "He was actually glad to see me when I went to Castle Black. But then he betrayed me, too."

"Sansa, he thought he was doing the right thing-"

"How strange that he should be so much like Father. Father always wanted to do the right thing, too. He gave Cersei Lannister the opportunity to flee with her children when he discovered that they were bastards, did you know that? He actually did! Because of the children, I suppose. How she laughed at him!" Tears began to slide down Sansa's face.

"Sansa, just calm down -"

"They stabbed Rob in the back, you know, Arya. They killed him in front of Mother, and then they slit Mother's throat while she wailed in grief, Bran told me. That's what they do. You have to do it to them before they do it to you. That's the trick of it. And they killed Grey Wind, and sewed his head on Rob's body. To show their contempt for him. They had to do it that way because he was too good a soldier. They would never have beaten him otherwise. Poor Rob! He didn`t deserve it!"

"No, he didn't -"

"And poor Rickon! Ramsay shot him dead right in front of Jon, just before the battle, and Jon couldn't stop him. Did you know that Jon charged Ramsay right then and there. Exactly what Ramsay wanted! I warned him about that, told him Rickon was already dead before Ramsay killed him, but he wouldn't listen! He still thought I was a silly little fool - that I knew nothing - but he did let me kill Ramsay, I will say that."

Arya was startled. "You killed Ramsay?"

"Yes, I went to the dungeons after the battle and set his dogs on him. He was covered in blood because Jon had beaten him after the battle - he was so angry over Rickon. They tore him to shreds. I was so relieved, Arya, so relieved. He raped me every night, you know, and he made Theon watch. It was awful - especially when he kept saying he himself was born of murder and rape and he wanted the same for _his_ son. Even the thought of that made me want to vomit. But I hated Joffrey more, at least until Ramsay killed Rickon..."

"Please, Sansa, you don`t need to tell me all this -"

"Oh, but I do. I have to tell someone, I've kept it in so long. Sometimes I'm not sure it's over. I wake up and Ramsay's beside my bed, covered in blood. He's smiling at me. He always smiled when he was torturing people. And he smiled when he raped me. He loved pain, even his own."

But Arya could bear no more. She used a move that the she had learned in her training, pinching a nerve behind Sansa's ear. Her sister slumped in her chair, finally and blessedly silent.

Someone scratched at the door, and opened it. Arya was relieved to see it was Brienne.

"I could tell she was upset," Brienne said in a whisper.

"That's an understatement. How long has she been like this?"

"It's gotten worse," Brienne said, "though I haven't seen her for awhile. I had asked the King to release me from the Kingsguard so I could go back to her service, because I thought she needed support, but he said no."

Arya sighed. She'd been about to suggest the same thing.

Brienne lifted Sansa and laid her on the bed, spreading a quilt over her.

"She said that things weren't going well in the North," Arya said. "Has she discussed it with you?"

Brienne shook her head. "No; but I've heard things. They're suffering the same problems that the rest of the country is - there's a shortage of manpower."

"A lot of Northerners were killed in the Wars, that's true."

"Not just killed; what people there are doing is drifting North of the Wall and disappearing," Brienne said. "Lord Mollen - he's one of Sansa's people - told me that he sent someone north of the Wall to investigate why this was so, and the person he sent didn't come back, either."

"Are you saying he was killed?" Arya was startled.

"Not that, because he sent money home to his family. But he stayed there, and wouldn't say why."

"Mysterious," said Arya.

"She's convinced that Jon Snow's doing it deliberately, she thinks to destabilize the North."

"He would have to have changed a lot in five years for that to be true," Arya said dubiously.

Brienne said: "I agree with you, but she's convinced. Though sometimes she thinks the King is behind it, because he wants the North back."

"He gave it to her freely when she asked," Arya said.

"Logic means nothing," Brienne said.

Arya had noticed that. Sansa's fears were random, but tormenting for all that.

"Has a maester seen her?" she asked.

"She won't have one near her," Brienne said. "She doesn't trust any of them."

"Even Sam?"

"Especially not him," Brienne said. Arya could see her point. Sam would immediately pass on to Bran anything she told him. Though if Bran knew already, she might as well see Sam as not. Arya was not clear on what her brother could see and not see, and hoped she had some shred of privacy left.

When Arya was called to a private meeting with Bran and Tyrion a day or so later, she delayed it as long as she could. Her sister was exhausting enough; but Bran was worse, because Arya wondered if they weren't rather alike. She wasn't a cripple, nor could she evesdrop on people at will, but several people complained of her coldness. And Bran, too, was cold. He cared nothing for people's feelings, and was thoroughly capable of humiliating them - as he had done at the Small Council meeting - with what appeared to be - well, she couldn't quite term it enjoyment, because he never enjoyed anything. But he appeared to rather relish demonstrating his superiority.

"Ah, Lady Arya," Tyrion said as she came into Bran's solar. "You've kept us waiting."

Obviously he expected an apology. Arya let him expect it.

Bran stared at her in his considering way. She sat down opposite him, and waited.

"Your ship has been reprovisioned, and this should pay your expenses," he said finally, and threw a purse on the table.

"I want someone to come with me," she said, taking the purse and weighing it carefully.

"I doubt taking Sansa would be a good idea - " Tyrion began.

"Not Sansa," said Arya. "I agree with you there. It wouldn't be a good idea. Brienne."

"Why Brienne?" Tyrion asked.

"Because I'm not at all sure Jon will be any politer to me than he'd be to either of you. But he likes Brienne, to judge by that letter. I might get a better reception with her along."

"I'd rather not," Bran said. "However, there is something in what you say. So I will allow Ser Brienne to accompany you."

"That's very kind of his Grace," Tyrion said to her, hoping to prompt an expression of gratitude, Arya supposed.

"And it's kind of me, too," she said. "I don't want to go, and would frankly prefer to avoid it."

Tyrion pretended to be suprised. "I thought you were close to him."

"I haven't seen him in five years," Arya said. "And I didn't bother to contact him, either. I'm sure he'll remember that."

"I'm equally sure you can overcome that," Tyrion said.

Arya looked at him. "Could you?"

Tyrion sighed. "Probably not."

"There's the truth, Tyrion. For once."

Tyrion said: "I would prefer to discuss what we need you to do on this trip. The past is the past."

"Not to Jon, I'm thinking," said Arya. "Bron's right about one thing. Jon's had lots of time to consider how the two of you set him up. How do you suggest I deal with that?"

"I didn't set him up," Tyrion said with a suggestion of gritted teeth.

"Bran? When he asks me why you never warned him about what was coming, how shall I answer?"

Bran merely looked at her in a blank way. _I don't understand you, that look says. Oh, yes, you do; oh, yes, you do. Stop playing with me, dammit.  
_

"Better to emphasize how helping us would retrieve his reputation," Tyrion said. "If I know him, he cares about that."

Arya had had plenty of time to consider Jon's long silence herself. _He may not care about that anymore, Tyrion. And if that's true, you'd better watch out._

"You're not asking for nothing, here. He'd be risking his life."

"He'd be serving Westeros," Tyrion said.

"He doesn't live in Westeros anymore."

"We could offer him the North," Bran said. "He might go for that."

After a long pause, Arya said carefully: "And what about Sansa?"

"Sansa can become a Septa," said Bran. "Or we'll arrange a marriage for her. A lot of the lords in Westeros would be interested - they know I won't have children."

Arya thought about Sansa's current state, but said nothing. She knew well enough that Tyrion and Bran would simply use it against her, if they didn't already know.

Tyrion said: "This is important, Lady Arya. Westeros is close to collapse, and if it does, the jackals will move in and devour what's left."

Arya merely nodded; she knew enough to say no more, especially what she was thinking. _I think the jackals are already here._


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR:

_Four and a half years ago._

Jon stopped at the Wall on his way back North.

Not the smartest thing he had ever done, perhaps; but since the terrifying dreams had now stopped, he was feeling distinctly better, at least physically. He also had some information to gather, and some information to test.

The Night Watch had been gutted by the battle against the White Walkers, and when Jon had crossed the Wall with the Wildlings six months ago, the roster at Castle Black had been less than fifty men. They had greeted him with no show of enthusiasm. He'd been right about the White Walkers, and being right in the Night's Watch made you about as popular as being wrong, only more so. Nor had they been happy with the prospect of him returning to the Watch permanently.

It had been that last element that convinced Jon not to stay with the Watch. He had lived with people with whom he had very little in common for most of his life. He had adapted to unhappiness, but only somewhat, especially with regard to Catelyn Tully. And during his time with the Watch, once Lord Commander Mormont was killed and Maester Aemon had left, his experience of it had became much worse.

Jon wondered more and more about Maester Aemon. He'd turned down the chance to be King of Westeros, and as a result, had outlived nearly all of his family. Jon doubted living at the Wall had made him happy, though. Then why had he done it? Jon wished he had asked him this question when he had had the chance. Would he have admitted that he'd made a colossal mistake? Very probably not. Jon himself couldn't admit to it, either. _Some things you can't._

Though his younger brother had been a decent King and a good man, Aegon V had made a balls-up of things in the end. Would it have been different if Maester Aemon had become King? Jon had only known him in his extreme old age, and did not know what sort of young man he had been.

_I wonder if he was anything like me?_

This possibility had rather depressed Jon. Of course, he was no longer a part of the Night's Watch, mainly because it no longer existed, not really. It had lost its raison d'etre, and it did not appear than it would ever regain it. Mole's Town was deserted, so that the remaining men had not even that comfort - not of a wife, but at least of a woman. Jon thought of Daenerys, and desire overcame him for a moment. But only for a moment, and then the details of his dream about her flooded into his mind. Enough to quench any desire permanently, he felt. He was still not sure how he felt about her. _Did I save Westeros, or condemn it to a worst fate? I certainly saved Tyrion, and that might be the same thing. _

He had liked Tyrion, trusted him, and felt sorry for him. Tyrion's family treated him badly, and they made no secret of it. Neither did he. Jon, who had suffered similar treatment from Catelyn Tully, and later Alestor Thorne, thought that made them alike. People who believed in justice. He had appreciated Tyrion's careless kindness, something he didn't often receive from strangers. But he had missed the fact that the only justice Tyrion Lannister was really interested in was justice for Tyrion Lannister.

_And Sam. I thought Sam was my brother. But it turned out that his brother was Dickon Tarly._

The Wall now came in sight, looming over the landscape like a warning. It used to keep the Wildings out of Westeros, but if Jon had his way, it would in the future keep the Westerosi out of the Far North. _Turnabout is fair play_.

Jon could see, even at a distance, that Castle Black was not completly unpopulated, so he stayed out of sight. He had returned to this section of the Wall for a reason, but he needed privacy to execute it, and he knew of only one way to obtain it.

He had with him a goshawk that he used for hunting small game. Jon did not enjoy warging into birds - he hadn't forgotten Orell's eagle - but the goshawk had a specific advantage for him. He needed it to explore a very small space.

When Maester Aemon had left Castle Black, he had asked a private favour of Jon; that the entrance to his rooms there be bricked up. A rather odd request, Jon had thought even then, but the Maester had explained to him that he had valuable papers that he wanted to safeguard while he was away. He also asked Jon to keep it quiet.

So the night before he left Castle Black, Maester Aemon had stayed in Jon's quarters while the latter had borrowed bricks and mortar from the stores and dutifully bricked up the entrance to Maester Aemon's suite of rooms. He hadn't liked the idea much; to him, it practically screamed 'valuables-kept-here', which rather defeated the purpose. However, the bricks were on the inside, and thus covered by the heavy studded door, which, also courtesy of Jon, sported some formidable bolts. The only entrance became a narrow and heavily barred window. Jon wanted to know if the deception had held.

He warged into the goshawk, and flew into Castle Black's courtyard. It was very early morning, and the men standing guard were asleep on their feet. Jon saw no one else about. He glided over to the window and alighted on the sill. From there he could see that the window had glass panes, rarities at Castle Black. But one was cracked, and Jon applied the goshawk's beak to it.

It took some time, but finally Jon opened a gap large enough to allow him entry. He squeezed the goshawk's body through it.

The room was very dusty. Jon noted that Maester Aemon had not packed most of his items away - after all, he was blind, and his drive toward secrecy had meant that he could not ask for help. But the room looked untouched, and the bricked-up wall was undisturbed. Maester Aemon's Myrish eye was there, his books lined the walls, and his desk was full of documents. Jon took note, but this was not what he was looking for.

He found it hanging innocently behind the bedchamber door: a small iron key with a small mark 'AT' impressed into the top. There were several other keys with it, of various types, but Jon recognized it. It was the key that the Maester had shown to him before he left, perhaps fearful that he wouldn't survive the trip. Jon took it in the goshawk's beak, and gently pulled it off the hook. He flew with it out the window.

He flew back to his camp, where he warged out of the goshawk (who seemed distinctly disgruntled by the experience). Jon examined the key carefully; it was the same one, he was sure. Though years seemed to have separated the departure of Maester Aemon from the current day, it wasn't really all that long. _It only seems like a century._

His next stop was Deep Lake, the Wall Castle financed by Queen Alysanne Targaryen to replace the Nightfort. It had never really done so, but Jon could understand why she had made the attempt. The Nightfort was a place of malign spirits; Deep Lake, by contrast, seemed serene. There was a statute of Alysanne herself in the courtyard, raised by the grateful Night's Watch. Jon inspected it. Curiously, he felt more interest in the likeness now that he knew that he was descended from her. It comforted him, just a little, that not all Targaryens had been mad, or bad, or dangerous; some of them had even been interested in public service. It also helped that she did not look like Daenerys.

Deep Lake, like the Nightfort, the castle it was designed to replace, was now deserted. The Castle was rather small, but unlike most of the deserted castles at the Wall, in reasonable shape. It was a good deal more recent than the rest of them, and because of the Queen's financial contributions, sturdily built. In the end, however, its size told against it; if the Nightfort was too big to maintain, Deep Lake's standard garrison was judged to be too small to fight off Wildling attacks.

But Jon had visited it before, and he liked it. Unlike most of the Wall Castles, it did not have the air of a prison. Maester Aemon had told him that he had served there for many years earlier in his career.

"Nearly ten or so years it was, though it seems like a long time ago now. I didn't intend to move from it, but on a visit to Castle Black, my eyesight began to fail, and I never went back. There are items there that Daenerys will need. I want you to promise me that you will see she gets them."

And so Jon had sworn. _An oathbreaker again. It gets easier as you go on._

Jon took the key with him to the Blind Tower, which sat in the corner of the keep facing the Wall. It was windowless, hence the name, and at one time the uppermost section was rumoured to have a way through the Wall. Jon, looking upwards, doubted it. But this was the place to which Maester Aemon had directed him. He fitted the key into the door, which was very narrow, and turned it.

There was no reaction. Jon tried again, unsuccessfully. Then again. It didn't work. He began striking the door, to no effect other than to hurt his hand; it began to bleed. He stopped and collected himsef; and then laid the flat of his hand on the door.

After a moment, the door creaked open. The opening was very narrow, and Jon only just managed to slip through it. He lit the torch he had brought with him and looked around.

The tower was empty, and featureless, with the exception of a staircase leading upwards. Jon saw that it was not quite as blind as its name would have it. There were long, very narrow slits cut in the stone, that let in a little light, and some air. As he climbed the stairs, he noticed that the slits grew longer if no wider.

The second floor contained a desk, numerous bookcases, and trunks of various sizes and shapes. Jon would have liked to explore them, but something was drawing him upwards. It chittered softly in his ear, like a spirit. He began to sweat. _I'll die here, and they'll find my bones scattered across the floor. And all because I could never learn to be prudent. The last of the Targaryens is the biggest fool of the lot_. _ And that's why he's the last._

Jon climbed the stairs again. The next floor contained only trunks, and when he tried to open one, the noise increased, angrily, and he gave it up. He climbed the next set of stairs.

At the very top of the tower, Jon found a small, empty, low-ceilinged chamber. There was nothing on the floor but a layer of dust. Jon sighed. _All for nothing.  
_

He turned back to the staircase, intending to go back down; but as his foot hit the first step, the chittering noise grew louder and more insistent. Jon stopped and looked around.

The roof of the tower had heavy wooden rafters. The light was so dim that at first Jon saw very little beyond that. But the noise in his head was growing still louder. He raised his hand - blood still dripped from it from his battle with the door - and brushed at the ceiling. An eldritch shriek exploded in his ear.

Jon ran his hands along the rafters. Now all he wanted to do was stop the noise in his head. His bleeding hand hit something hidden in one of the brackets that supported the roof. He pulled at it. There was a noise, and a box slid part way out of the rafter. Jon lifted it the rest of the way out.

The noise stopped. Jon lost no time in getting down the stairs, the box under his arm. _I may not get another chance._

Getting the box through the door was difficult, but Jon managed it, just barely, and wriggled himself out after it. He slid to the ground, his back on the now closed door, and the box in his hands. "And after all this," he said aloud, "the box will be empty."

It wasn't.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5:

_Present time_

Since Sansa was also returning North, Arya convinced her to accompany them, at least as far as White Harbour. She wanted to keep an eye on her sister, at least for a little while longer.

And of course, after all the drama, Sansa seemed absolutely calm and collected, while Arya felt utterly undone. She didn't want to wager on Sansa's remaining calm, however, especially if she discovered that Bran and Tyrion were willing to offer Jon the North in exchange for his co-operation. Or were they? Was it a test to see if she would tell Sansa? Arya didn't know and wasn't willing to find out. It seemed unlikely to her that they would actually give Jon anything, especially his own kingdom. That they might take the North back from Sansa, however, was not so unlikely.

Tyrion came to see them off. Arya knew that meant that he had something more to say to her, as indeed it proved. He drew her aside, and said: "You have the King's permission to offer him the North if all else fails," he said. Arya knew that there were two unspoken riders: don't tell Sansa, and don't put it in writing. She also knew that Bran would disavow the offer if necessary, which is why Tyrion alone was making it.

"And do I throw in the Iron Islands if I must?" she asked, with a flippancy that appeared to annoy the Hand.

"This is important," Tyrion said, glaring at her.

"Yes, yes, it's important," Arya said, impatiently. "All I said was that I'd talk to Jon about it. I'll tell him about your offer." _The hell I will_. "Obviously, after that it depends on him."

"And that's enough to scare anyone," Tyrion muttered. "I'd go myself if I thought he'd talk to me."

"Why did I get the job?" Arya asked.

"Because Seaworth and Tarly both refused to go anywhere near him," Tyrion said, with an air of frankness. _And that's a lie, he hasn't asked either of them. His eyes flicker slightly when he lies.  
_

"I wonder why," Arya said sarcastically.

"We figured that he wouldn't hurt a woman."

"And Daenerys Targaryen can attest to it," Arya said, deadpan.

Tyrion's face turned red, whether with suppressed fury, or suppressed laughter, Arya wasn't sure.

"As you say. Let me amend that: he wouldn't _usually_ hurt a woman."

"Is that why you don't want Sansa to come with us?"

Tyrion gave her an exasperated look. "No - the fact is we think you're the only one of us he wouldn't kill on sight."

"And if you're wrong, does it really matter? I'm expendable."

Tyrion smiled. "Exactly. Though you can take care of yourself, if anyone can."

"I'm flattered," Arya said.

She stared at Tyrion. She had host of questions that she had often wanted to ask him: are you sorry for supporting Bran as King? Did you do the right thing when you did? Do you regret Daenerys' death? Are Lannisters capable of shame?"

That last one was a stupid question, Arya thought. A really, really stupid question. The Lannisters are only capable of infamy, and in that respect Tywin Lannister had bred true all three times.

Tyrion gave her a look. "You need to convince him," he said. There was an undertone in his voice that Arya disliked, but she refrained from showing it. Tyrion had proven to be a very dangerous opponent, especially to Starks, and it wouldn't be wise to show her feelings too openly.

"Your brother and sister can't just stop being King of Westeros and Queen of the North, you know," Tyrion said. "They can't go backwards. If someone else took the Iron Throne, it would mean their deaths." _Bran's already dead, if you ask me, and Sansa's getting there pretty quickly at the rate she's going_.

Arya had the feeling that this wasn't the first time Tyrion had used this argument. There was a rote quality to it; he'd said it before. T_o Jon. Told Jon if he didn't choose between the Starks and the Targaryens, the Starks would die._

"You understand me, don't you?" Tyrion said.

Arya thought about the damage Tyrion had done, supporting Daenerys early on, mostly out of spite; convincing Jon that he needed to support her, too, and doing nothing to curb her instability until it was too late - all the things for which he had managed to transfer the blame onto Jon; and she wondered what would happen if she killed him right then and there. Would Bran execute her? Or exile her, like he had Jon?

_Things to think about._

She smiled at him, and gave a decided nod. "I understand," she said. "You can rely on me to protect my family."

Tyrion kissed her hand, and she managed to give him another smile. He kissed Sansa's hand, too, but she seemed preoccupied and took little notice of it or him. He took polite leave of Brienne, who was polite right back.

As they stood on the ship watching King's Landing receding in the distance, Arya said: "Did you ever get a divorce? From Tyrion, I mean."

"No," Sansa said, without interest. "though Bran told me that he would give me an annulment as soon as I find another husband."

"Tyrion never -" Arya said, as delicately as she could.

"Gods! No!"

"I'm surprised, that's all."

"His father kept urging him to," Sansa said. "So that he could get me pregnant. But I was still only thirteen, so he didn't."

"I'm glad to hear it," Arya said drily.

"Not as glad as I was," Sansa said, drier still. "He was kind to me, though, I have to say. The only one who was. Though it was the Hound who prevented me from being raped in the riots."

Arya remembered the Hound commenting on Sansa, and how he very much he wished he'd fucked her. Tyrion probably felt the same way. At least they were able to restrain themselves. More commendable in the Hound's case than Tyrion's, perhaps, since Arya reckoned that Sansa could've beat the latter up without too much trouble.

"I haven't found anyone yet," Sansa said. "The Northern Houses are decimated, most of them - and I'm damned if I'd marry a Karstark or an Umber or a Glover."

"Point taken," Arya said.

"You killed all the male Freys, or most of them," Sansa said. "Not that I'm complaining."

Arya laughed. "A Stark could never marry a Frey," she said.

"And Robb proved it," Sansa said. "I think our lives went to pieces when Robb died, don't you? Father's death was horrible, but Robb's was worse."

"Yes," Arya said. Her throat was tight. "Yes, I think you're right."

Sansa gave her a sharp glance, and changed the subject. "The Prince of Dorne - I can never remember his name - is in the middle of a civil war."

"Oh? Who's on the other side?"

"One of the Red Viper's daughters decided he was 'jumped-up-Lannister-lover' or something to that effect. Those are fighting words in Dorne, apparently. The majority of the Dornish tend to agree with her, and are supporting her against him for the Sun Chair."

"I thought all the Sand Snakes were dead," Arya said.

"Just the three eldest. This one, Sarella, is the fourth; she didn't get involved with the Dragon Queen, and she survived. Apparently, she's more crafty and less impulsive than the rest of her family, so that he has his hands full. The Dornish don't fight decisive battles, of course. They fight dirty ones."

"Isn't Bran helping him? What's-his-name is his vassal, after all."

"Bran says it's his problem."

"Great way to maintain loyal supporters, there, Bran," Arya said, to the ether.

"Bran can't afford it," Sansa pointed out. "He's up to his neck in debt, and the Iron Bank is making threatening noises about collecting."

"Why did he give Highgarden to Bronn, then? It's the most wealthy part of Westeros, and he's systematically looting it."

"Tyrion promised him, apparently. Or Jaime Lannister did," Sansa said. "Lannisters always pay their debts."

"Not always," Arya muttered, and then said: "And appointing him as Master of Coin? That doubles the stupidity. What does he know about money other than how to spend it?"

"That I can't help you with, Arya. Ask Bran. He'll stare through you like you aren't there. Or Tyrion. The double talk will fly."

"Though Bronn's better than Littlefinger," Arya said. "At least if he doesn't have the money, he won't spend it."

Sansa's face froze, and Arya could have kicked herself for bringing up Baelish's name. Hurriedly she said: "What about Sweetrobin?"

Sansa gave a sudden whoop of laughter, and Arya relaxed.

"He isn't half bad now, you know, it's surprising. He was such an awful child, but Yohn Royce took him in hand quite successfully. But I could never marry any son of Lysa Arryn. Batshit crazy, that woman was, and that I don't need. She nearly threw me through the Moon Door because she thought I was a rival for - " she stopped, and her speech petered out.

"What about Gendry?" Arya cut in, rather desperately.

"Oh! Didn't you know? He's married, or he was."

"Was?"

"He married some highborn girl from the Westerlands - I forget her name - Tyrion arranged the marriage, I think. He has two daughters by her. Unfortunately, the son they had last spring was stillborn and she died in childbed."

"Sorry to hear it," Arya said, rather shortly.

"To be frank, I heard she was a bitch," said Sansa. "Apparently, she resented being married to an ex-blacksmith legitimized bastard, and let everyone know it, including him. I also heard that they were living apart when she died."

"Sounds rather dire," Arya said.

"Well, don't ask me for a testimonial," said Sansa. "I nearly married Joffrey, I did marry Tyrion, and then I commited bigamy with Ramsay. It's enough to put anyone off the institution for good."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"He wanted to marry you, didn't he? Gendry?"

Arya shrugged.

"Why didn't you, then? You always liked him."

"I did and I still do; I just don't want to be married."

"Try Yara Greyjoy, then."

Arya choked. "No to any example of the family Greyjoy, thank you very much. Especially Yara."

"Well, then, what about Tyrion?" Sansa suggested, with a nasty grin. "My ex. You should get along well."

"Sansa," said Arya. "Please do shut up."

"Short, but rich. Talks a lot, mostly about himself. You should get along well."

"Enough!"

"Or you could do a Targaryen and marry Bran."

This seemed to amuse them both, though Arya was not sure why. So far the only Stark king of Westeros managed to be stranger than any of the numerous Targaryen ones, a considerable achievement without the benefit of in-breeding, Arya supposed. Perhaps his only one, to judge from the state of his Kingdom.

"Bran does need a heir," Sansa pointed out.

"No, he doesn't; like the three-eyed Raven, he intends to live forever."

"And how did that work out for the three-eyed Raven?" said Sansa. "He's dead, or so I hear."

"I guess you'll have to get married again, then, Sansa," Arya said. "I'm not, and otherwise the Starks will die out."

"There _is_ another candidate," Sansa pointed out.

"He's not going there, for obvious reasons," said Arya. "It won't be Jon."

"He hasn't done anything _about_ Jon, though. You know what I mean. And you can bet Tyrion, who isn't stupid, wanted to. He's not sure that he won't need Jon. The future may be telling him something."

Arya snorted. "I doubt it," she said.

"You wouldn't be headed North if Bran didn't want something from Jon, right?" Sansa pointed out.

"I suppose so."

"What Bran actually wants may not be what he says he wants, Arya," Sansa said, a warning tone in her voice. "Be careful what you say to Jon."

"I know that," Arya said, sighing.

"And don't offer him the North," Sansa said.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6:

_Four and a half years ago_.

Besides the box and the sword, Jon found several other items of interest in the next few hours. One was another sword, wrapped in a hard crusty material that Jon couldn't unravel, and so filthy that he didn't really want to try any harder to do so. There were documents, too, some of them surprising Jon when he read them. It appeared that Maester Aemon had had a rather more interesting past than Jon had ever imagined.

In the end, he took the two swords and the box, and packed them into his saddlebags. He knew he would have a long, hard journey home, and the rest of the haul was too fragile or unwieldy to risk. So he bundled it up and hid it again. Of course, the box was unwieldy, too, but Jon found it impossible to leave it behind.

Jon used Deep Lake's gate to cross the Wall. To his surprise, the gate opened for him rather easily, and he was able to close and seal it; the Watch had not changed the locks and codes since he had been Lord Commander. _Careless of them, but I suppose they had other things to think about._

Deep Lake was farther West than Castle Black, and so he decided to cut through the pass where Craster's Keep had once been located. It was a shorter route than hugging the northern side of the Wall to the east coast. Jon hurried through the area around Craster's Keep, as it held so many bad memories; thus the trip was quicker than he might have expected, and he arrived in good time. Rather to his surprise, he was given a relieved welcome from the Wildlings.

"Thought the crows had got you," Tormund said. "Or the Southrons."

"There are hardly any crows left," Jon said. "Castle Black is only just barely manned."

"I'll spare my tears over that," said Tormund.

Jon smiled. "So will I. But it does give me ideas, Tormund."

"That's bad news," Tormund sighed. "You think too much, you always did. Well? What is it, then?"

"When Sansa became the Queen of the North, the Wall became her responsibility."

"So?"

"I'm guessing that was one of the reasons Bran agreed to it. The Wall is too expensive for anyone to maintain these days, and it really has no genuine use anymore. Not for the North, nor the Six Kingdoms."

"And?"

"Except to us," Jon said. "We're going to take over the Wall, and restore the Castles - or at least some of them."

"We're going to join the Night's Watch?" Tormund was horrified.

"No," said Jon. "The Night's Watch is going to join _us_. And remember, the Watch - and not the Kingdom of the North - owns the land at the Wall, including the Queen's Gift."

Tormund decided that Jon must be light-headed from hunger, and took him off to the cook-house to eat. It was there that he produced the letter.

"This came for you while you were away," he said to Jon, as they sat down at a table.

Jon stared at it. Who was writing to him? He was mentally running through all the possibilities when an impatient Tormund said: "Well? Just open it."

It was from, of all people, Brienne of Tarth.

It read:

"I wanted to write to you, Jon Snow, because I wanted you to know that I believe that you were unfairly treated in the matter of the death of Daenerys Targaryen. I have no doubt whatever that you did what you thought was right and for the purpose of saving lives. I honour you for it. But there are a lot of ill-natured and ill-informed people who will blame you for it and call you names. Please ignore them. I saw first hand the grief they caused Jaime Lannister in the matter of the death of Daeneryes' father, King Aerys. King Aerys was about to destroy King's Landing with wildfire, and Jaime stopped him. He saved many lives, yet they called him Kingslayer to his face and an oathbreaker, too, and disdained him. Remember one thing: the statements of lesser men mean nothing. They are always the greatest critics of the courageous.

I am now the captain of your brother's Kingsguard. But I hope that I would have made the same decision you did, in the same situation. We never know if we are brave enough to do the right thing, when it is also the most difficult thing. I don't, in any case. You do.

With sincere regards,

Brienne of Tarth"

"The Big Woman!" roared Tormund, pounding his fists on the table when he realized whom the letter was from. "Why is she writing to you and not me?"

"No clue," Jon said. Though the letter touched him, he wasn't sure that he wanted to be lumped together with the likes of Jaime Lannister. Still, it was obvious Brieene esteemed him, and meant it as a compliment, and Jon decided to accept it as such. He was not so used to a kind word as to reject it.

Tormund insisted that he read the letter aloud. Jon tried to avoid this, but the big man insisted. After he had finished, Tormund was silent a moment, and then said: "Well, she's right about that. Smart as well as beautiful!"

"It takes courage to stab a defenseless woman in the chest?" Jon asked derisively.

"When she has a dragon, it does. Didn't you think the dragon would kill you?"

Jon was silenced. He had thought that. He nodded.

"Why didn't he? Do you know?"

"No," Jon said. "I've often wondered about that myself. He stormed in, melted the Iron Throne to ashes, grabbed Dany's body, and stormed out, never to be seen again."

"He had the right of it, I'm thinking," Tormund said.

"He saw me, and he must have understood what had happened. But he didn't do anything to me."

"Dragons are smarter than I thought."

"I know Bran wanted to take control of him through warging, and I was afraid that he might. That _would_ be the end of me."

"Last seen headed for Essos, wasn't he?"

"Yes. They spotted him headed east, still carrying her body."

"Let's hope he doesn't find some damned Red priest to resurrect her," Tormund said.

Even the thought of it made Jon feel physically ill. He had never been sure that he had done the right thing, and often agonized over it; but the thought of Daenerys returning to life horrified him. _So that's the answer. I loved her and I don't want her back_. _I don't know why I'm surprised;_ _I felt the same way about Ygritte by the end._

Tormund laughed at Jon's expression.

"Not something to be wished for, is it?" he teased.

Jon tried to be offended - he tried very, very hard - but he couldn't quite manage it. He shook his head. _I never really understood our relationship. Nobody could describe me as bold with women, yet I made the first move. Yes, she was beautiful, but also high-handed and with a short attention-span. Maybe it was that we were both Targaryens, which might explain all the incest in the family tree.  
_

"I'm glad you think so, because every man who isn't a double-dealing Southron cunt agrees. Though of course, that brother of yours is no better."

"No, he isn't," Jon admitted. "He might even be worse."

"Pity you didn't take care of him at the same time."

Jon laughed. "Tormund!" he said. _I shall express disapproval for the record, though in fact I agree with him. Damn pity._

"Well, I'm just saying, he treated you like shit. That sister of yours, too. Some family they are. If you could have persuaded that dragon to spread a little wildfire in their direction, I certainly wouldn't have complained."

"They never owed me anything," Jon said.

"You didn't owe them anything, either," Tormund said. "Just remember that. You behaved as though you did, but you didn't."

Jon nodded again. _We're even now, and I'm never making the mistake of trusting any of them again. I need to start trusting myself instead._

"So," said Tormund. "Was the trip to Summerhall worth risking your life over?"

Jon looked thoughtful. "It might be."

"And that's all you're saying?" Tormund asked.

"For now, Tormund."

Tormund snorted. "Are you going to answer that letter, then?"

"I plan to, yes," Jon said. "Why?"

"I want you to give a message to the Big Woman. Tell her I want to fuck her."

"Tormund! I can't say that!"

"Why not? What's wrong with it? If I said that I didn't want to fuck her, now that would be an insult."

Jon laughed, and together they started drafting the letter.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7:

_Present time._

"I..." Arya said.

"It's the obvious move if you have no money to offer, and Bran doesn't," Sansa said. She seemed remarkably calm. "And then when Tyrion came to see us off, I knew why."

"I never intended to do it, Sansa," Arya said.

"The North was angry at Jon when he bent the knee to that woman," Sansa said. "They felt betrayed. He knows it. I don't think they'd stand for it."

There was no sign of the irrational anger she had displayed previously, and yet Arya still felt very disturbed by her reaction.

When she discussed this with Brienne later - out of Sansa's earshot - the tall woman just shrugged. "She can be very calm one minute, and very upset the next. It's just knowing which is which. Though I must admit, sometimes it's both."

And it was both on the trip North. Sometimes Sansa would be cheerful and level-headed; and yet she could turn on the point of a sword, and then her fear and anger would come boiling out. All in all, Arya was relieved when the towers of White Harbour were sighted.

Lord Wyman Manderly greeted them warmly at the harbourside, and even gave a feast in their honour. Arya noted, however, that the feast was on the meager side, and saw that Lord Manderly had even lost weight. A new low.

She took him aside and asked him, bluntly, about the situation in the North. He didn't even pretend to misunderstand her.

"It's not good," he admitted. "White Harbour itself is surviving, due to trade, though in fact it's not doing as well as it could be. We've now got some serious competition."

"Gull Town?" Arya was surprised. Gull Town was on the east coast of the Vale, south of White Harbour.

"Not Gull Town," Lord Manderly said. "Hardhome."

"The Wildlings? You're not serious?"

"Very serious. They've always done some fishing and trading out of Hardhome, but now they're doing a lot more of it. And once it was dredged, Hardhome became a first-class deep sea harbour. It doesn't ice up, despite its location."

"And who on earth dredged it?"

"The Iron Bank, believe it or not."

Arya gave him a disbelieving look. "Why would they do that? Loan money to the Wildlings?"

"As far as I can discover," Lord Manderly said, "there was no loan."

"They did it out of the goodness of their heart?"

"No such beast," he said, shaking his head. "They were given a portion of the profits. Or so I hear."

"That means the Iron Bank thought there would be some," Arya said.

"They were right," Lord Manderly muttered. "Fish and seafood are the most profitable - ones caught in Northern waters, and packed in ice. Much prized in Essos. Lumber as well, wool, and silver. Since the Iron Bank has a portion of the profits, they prefer the Hardhome version to ours."

"I see," Arya said.

"We still have markets," Lord Manderly said. "Just not as many."

"What about the rest of the North, then?" Arya asked.

Lord Manderly sighed. "It's not your sister's fault, but there was a split in allegiance. She has the support of most of the noble houses in the North, that's true. But the smallfolk are a different matter. They preferred Jon Snow. They didn't like her marriages, and they knew him better - he stayed in the North, and she didn't. And he looks Northern, like a Stark."

"Which she doesn't," Arya sighed.

"I advised her to close the Sept at Winterfell, just as a precaution," Lord Manderly said. "But she wouldn't."

Though he didn't approach the subject directly, Arya knew he was referring to religion. And as far as the smallfolk were concerned, Jon had the right one.

"A good many families in the North find that their smallfolk are leaving," Lord Manderly said.

"I'd heard that they go North," Arya said.

"Some do; some come to White Harbour instead. I've had demands from some of the old houses to return them. If that happens, I warn them. They usually don't go home; they go North."

"But there's nothing there," Arya protested.

"Hardhome's been rebuilt," Lord Manderly said. "I was there last year, and the Wildlings' sojourn south of the Wall appears to have given them some ideas."

"Such as?"

"They're still nomadic," Lord Manderly said. "But now they come in during the worst of the winter. There's a big common stockade at Hardhome to house them right at the moment, and they're rebuilding it in stone. And the harbour there has better fortifications than we do. The Wildlings have also taken over the remains of Eastwatch-By-The-Sea, and by what I hear, they're restoring it."

"But that's south of the Wall!" Arya was startled.

"Yes, it is. Your sister can do nothing about it, I'm afraid. The smallfolk don't want to fight anyone, and the noble houses are so decimated that there's not enough lords left to force them. And the land just South of the Wall is empty of people because of the War. And that's not the only Wall Castle they've taken over, from what I hear."

"What others?" Arya asked, surprised.

"The Shadow Tower, Castle Black and Deep Lake," Lord Manderly admitted. "I've also heard rumours about Westwatch by the Bridge."

"I don't understand," Arya said. "What good are all those ruined castles?"

"Eastwatch-By-the-Sea controls a certain amount of trade and safeguards the border," Lord Manderly said. "I can understand that one. It was a rare Wall Castle that paid its own way. Castle Black is the largest of the lot and it's the terminus of the King's Road. The Shadow Tower could promote trade on the Western coast, as could Westwatch. Deep Lake, though; I really don't know about that one. Perhaps because it's a more recently built castle and it's still in decent shape."

"Safeguard the border?" Arya asked him.

"Ironic, isn't it? We used to safeguard the Northern border against the Wildlings, and now they're safeguarding their Southern border against _us_."

Arya was silent a moment. "Did you see Jon while you were there?" she asked, finally.

Lord Manderly shook his head. "I did ask to see him, because I had something to discuss with him. The Wildlings insisted that he wasn't there."

"Do you think it was true?"

"I doubt it, because I know he's there most of the time. That's what I hear, in any case. They're just not prepared to admit it. Probably for his own safety."

"What did you want to discuss with him?"

"Your sister."

That did surprise Arya. "Sansa?"

"Yes. I had an offer to make him. I persuaded her to make it, though to be frank, it took some doing."

He seemed to expect Arya to ask what the offer was, but Arya was pretty sure she already knew. "That they get married, I suppose?"

"Well, he's not really your brother, is he? It makes sense. It would stop the exodus north, I think, and restore the loyalty of the smallfolk." He sighed. "She didn't want to, but she's in a very difficult position, and I talked her into it."

"I take it Jon said no?" Arya asked.

"I left a letter for him; he didn't answer it. Of course, we don't know for sure that he received it. The Wildlings are very close-mouthed about him and suspicious of us. They may not have given it to him."

"Was Sansa relieved or humiliated?"

"Both, I think."

"That explains a lot," Arya said. And it did. Though she couldn't imagine Sansa married to Jon. As a child, Sansa had echoed her mother's opinion on her supposedly bastard half-brother, and even when Jon had abandoned the Night's Watch to help her, her complaints about him were constant. Jon had simply endured, rather like their father with their mother. Arya wondered if Jon had decided that he simply didn't want to reproduce Eddard Stark's marriage to a stubborn and demanding woman. Or maybe he was simply not prepared to treat with Sansa at all, given her history of being untrustworthy, at least where he was concerned.

"Does my sister have any other suitors?" Arya asked.

"A few, but no one she considers worthy of her time," Lord Manderly said. "I think she's perhaps rather too picky, given the availability of suitable men."

Arya's chin went up; Sansa was a _Stark_, and a Queen in her own right. She was worthy of the best. _And Jon hadn't bothered to answer the letter. She must have considered that a deliberate insult._

"No offense," Lord Manderly said quickly, seeing her expression.

"None taken," Arya said stiffly. She thought it best to change the subject. "Will there be a place for us to stay in Hardhome when we arrive? Or will we have to live on our ship?"

"The Harbour is separate from the town," Lord Manderly said. "We could only see the town from a distance, and we weren't allowed to go there."

Arya was surprised. "Was there a reason?"

"They didn't say. Just told us: don't go there. One of my crew got roaring drunk and decided to visit the town, despite the warning. They dumped him back on our ship the next morning. What was left of him, that is. The Wildlings had no further trouble in that direction."

"And they'll get none from me; I just want a place to stay."

"The Harbour does have guesthouses."

"Are they reasonably comfortable?"

"Quite comfortable, yes. Run by people from the North, mostly. They live at the Harbour. I met someone there I knew, and he told me about the changes North of the Wall. The Harbour's quite built up, and you can get nearly anything you want there - but you can't go to the town." _Meeting with Jon was going to be more complicated than I had anticipated._

Sansa's escort arrived from Winterfell the next day. Arya was pleased to see them, but noted with trepidation that most of them were well above forty. _The young people go North._

She felt protective of Sansa, possibly for the first time in her life. "You can call on me if you need me," she said to her sister as she left, patting her arm. Sansa's lip trembled and she clung to Arya.

"He'll stab you in the back," she whispered.

"He'll never get the chance," Arya said, having learned that arguing with Sansa was pointless, "so don't worry."

Arya and Brienne watched her leave, sobbing. "Do you think she'll be alright?" Arya asked.

"She's far stronger than you think," Brienne said. Though after a pause, she whispered: "I hope."

Arya hoped so, too, staring at the back of her retreating sister until she disappeared.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

_Four and a half years ago._

Jon was glad to be back north of the Wall. He had not realized how stressful the trip south had actually been for him, until he relaxed his vigilance on crossing the border. The Wildlings were equally glad to see him, and Jon felt that the Far North was the only part of the continent where this could be said to be true. He had managed to wear out his welcome everywhere else. He smiled. He was beginning to think that it was an advantage. And if it wasn't, he'd make it so.

One of the first things the Wildlings had done upon their return six months ago was to build a log stockade at Hardhome. There were three longhouses inside the walls, one complete, one nearly so, and with the other in progress, a cook-house, and a bath-house. This was because they weren't sure whether there were anything left of the White Walkers, the wights, and/or the cannibalistic tribes of the West and/or Skagos. And, as Tormund put it: "It never hurts to be careful."

If Jon was amused by this highly uncharacteristic utterance, he certainly did not disagree. There were rumours that a massive Skagosi raid had destroyed the original town of Hardhome three hundred years ago. He did not intend for it to happen again. The stockade had watch towers, but both Jon and Tormund agreed that the wooden construction made them vulnerable to fire. The longhouses were lined with peat, after all; which made them surprisingly warm, but dangerous when under attack by burning arrows. There were large chimneys and hearths at either end for heating.

When Jon had given the Dreadfort to the Wildlings after the Battle of the Bastards, he had expected them to disdain living in a castle. To his surprise, they had been fascinated by it instead, inspecting every aspect of the historic holdfast. Tormund, after a tour of the dungeons, said he knew what he thought of the Boltons.

"Didn't you see their sigil?" Jon asked him. "It's a flayed man, hung upside down. Not exactly a cuddly symbol, I'd say."

"I didn't look too closely," Tormund admitted. "I just thought it was some sort of a poncey pink cross."

"They were always jealous of the Starks," Jon said. "Especially their warging abilities. They used to think if they flayed them alive, and use their skins, they'd have the same power. Stupid idea, but through it they got a taste for flaying people. It was outlawed in the North for years, but they still did it anyway."

"Your family shouldn't tolerated that," Tormund said seriously. "See where it led?"

"I could say the same about the Ice-River Tribes, couldn't I?" Jon pointed out. "They're cannibals, but Mance did nothing about them, nor did you. Sometimes you have to tolerate things, even if you don't want to."

Tormund snorted, but nodded.

"We'll need to rebuild the stockade in stone," Jon said.

"And how will we do that?" Tormund wanted to know.

"We'll need money," Jon said. "And at least one ship. Though more would be better."

"We don't have either, as far as I can see."

"Not now, that's true, but we'll get them," Jon said.

"I think you've been howling at the full moon a just little too long, little Crow," Tormund said. "It's turned your brain."

"You watch, Tormund," Jon said, thumping him on the back. "The Gods will provide."

"I won't waste my time," Tormund said. "It'll never happen."

But the Gods favoured Jon in this instance. A little more than a month later five ships sailed into the delta at Hardhome. They were Iron Islanders judging by the construction of their ships, their sigil, and their arrogance. They were looking for Jon.

"Hand over Jon Snow," the captain of the largest ship yelled out to those on the jetty, "and we'll spare the rest of you."

"They must think we're addled," Tormund said to Jon when he reported this conversation. "Like we'd actually believe they'd spare _anybody_. When has that ever happened?"

"Well, this is interesting," Jon said. "Probably Yara Greyjoy sent them, or maybe they just hope to please her by killing me."

"Why would that please her?" Tormund asked.

"She was loyal to Daenerys, much more so than anyone else in Westeros," Jon said.

"Trust the Greyjoys to be on the wrong side in any dispute."

"As you say. How many men have they?"

"It's hard to tell with Squids," said Tormund. "I'd say maybe fifty to sixty or so men for that many ships, but I don't doubt that there's more below decks, just waiting for the word."

They went up to the newly-completed watchtower, and Jon had a look at the little fleet.

"See that?" he said to Tormund. "They're riding low in the water. Their cargo holds are full."

Tormund nodded. "I see it. They've been raiding all along the way from the Iron Islands."

Jon smiled. "Good."

"Good?"

"That's why they don't really want to fight. Somebody has to guard the booty, and they don't want to risk it in any battle. I suspect Yara Greyjoy told them to start here and plunder on the way home, but they simply couldn't resist the temptations of the trip out."

"So, then, when do we attack?"

"Not just yet. Go back and tell them I agree to come with them voluntarily, if they don't hurt anyone else."

"I'm damned if I will! You know damn well their word isn't worth shit!"

"I do know that, Tormund. It's just to give us a little time. Pull the chains in the harbour up, as quietly as you can. That will trap them in the delta. Then assemble all the archers you can muster and place them along the inside of the stockade wall. Sitting, so the Squids can't see them. But no fire on the arrows, if you please. Not unless it's absolutely necessary. I want those ships as a prize, if possible."

"A prize?"

"Tormund, my friend, we're going into trade. And for that, we need a fleet. This will make a good start."

Tormund peered at him and then leaned forward to sniff his breath. "I thought you might be drunk," he explained, when Jon gave him a look.

"A very good idea! Send them some food and drink. Not much food and a whole lot of drink. Pretend to be afraid of them. If you can't manage that, and I do think you might have trouble with it, send Hlinni."

Tormund gave a snort of laughter. Hlinni was a wilding who was notorious for exaggeration and telling endless tall tales and/or very unlikely stories. Such was his own investment in them, however, he was very convincing to his audience, at least until you were out of his presence.

"Well, he's a talented liar, so why not?"

Why not, indeed, and Hlinni, a small dark lively man who relished attention of any sort, was delighted by the task. They had several casks of liquor, liberated from the ruined cellars of Last Hearth as they came north. and Hlinni rolled one of them out to the jetty and called the captain of the fleet over to him. The captain, seeing the cask, didn't hesitate. Jon and Tormund watched as he and Hlinni began an animated conversation, and under their breaths, they recreated it:

Jon: "Hlinni's saying: here's a gift from us to you fine gentlemen! The best liquor available!"

Tormund: "And the captain says: don't you have more of it than that? There's rather a lot of us."

Jon: "Well, I suppose I could find some more...if you insist."

Tormund: "I do insist."

Jon: "I really should ask first, though."

Tormund: "Here's a shilling for you."

Jon: "Oh! I remember! There _is_ another cask! In fact, there's four or five of them!"

Tormund: "Well, bust 'em out, wildling, bust 'em out. And here's another shilling."

Jon: "That's very generous of you, sers!"

Tormund: "And a truer word was never spoken. All Iron Islanders are _very_ generous! When is Jon Snow going to join us?"

Jon: "Pretty soon. He's just packing up and saying his goodbyes."

Tormund: (with a nasty laugh) "He doesn't need to pack, where he's going."

Jon: "Oh? Where is that?"

Tormund: "A place where he won't last long. Yara's waiting."

Jon: "Yara?"

Tormund: "Yara Greyjoy. She has plans for Ser Crow. He won't enjoy 'em, either."

Jon: "He says he'll go with you, if you don't hurt the rest of us."

Tormund: "Would we break our word?" (more laughter) "Yara said he'd do that, and without a fight, too. A right fool he is, she said."

Jon: "She's right, I'm afraid."

Tormund: (snapping out his Ironborn character, and in a serious voice) "Not this time, Jon."

"No; not this time," Jon agreed. He could see the Squids clustered around the original cask, and Hlinni industriously rolling out another.

"What a waste of good liquor," Tormund said mournfully, as he watched.

"It's not a waste at all, if we get what I think we will," Jon said.

They waited another hour or so. A third and then a fourth cask was produced, and the Squids became drunker, and more of them, attracted by the liquor, came out of the ships.

"Let's do a count, then," Jon said.

The count was fifty-six. "Close enough," Tormund muttered, and they went down to the gate. Tormund gathered his best fighters there and then gave a low whistle in the direction of the stockade. The archers secreted there rose as one and let fly a hail of arrows.

Some of them didn't have the correct range, but a good portion of the Squids were too drunk to react quickly; and they were caught by the corrections made in the second barrage a minute later. Their screams alerted the men below decks, and they tried to move the ships away from the shore, abandoning their fellows. But they ran into the chains stretched across the delta entrance, and one ship collided with another, blocking the escape route.

Jon cried: "They don't have enough of a crew to man those ships! I need a boarding party!"

They did have fishing boats, and while the archers mopped up the Squids who had come ashore, they piled into them and rowed to the ships. On board, as Jon had thought, there were very few Ironborn. However in the hold, they found plenty of other people, most of them chained to the side of the ship.

"Where are you from?" Jon asked one of the chained men, after they'd dealt with the remaining Squids.

"The Riverlands," he answered. "That is, I am."

"I'm from the Reach," another said. Still another was from Dorne. Most of Westeros was well represented. Jon reckoned that most of the men had been destined to be thralls on the Iron Islands.

They found a key on the body of one of the Squids, and freed the prisoners. The other four ships yielded a similar haul. Luckily the ships that collided were not seriously damaged, and didn't sink; and thus they were able to free all the prisoners in their holds.

There were other things in the holds, too; the Squids had been busy. Coins, jewels, clothing, foodstuffs, weapons, cooking utensils, tools, furniture, books, parchment, furs, even building materials, including lumber, nails, glass and tiles. Anything portable and with a possible value. Jon's heart leapt when he saw it.

The prisoners informed them that there were two other ships which the Squids had left moored south of Hardhome. The Iron Islanders had lifted them both from the Reach on the trip out, and had loaded them with so much loot that they were riding rather too low in the water to bring into a battle; they had been left with skeleton crews. Jon directed the wildlings who were experienced with ships to take two of the other ships and fetch them.

They herded the freed prisoners to the shore, where they looked around in wonder. "Where are we?" the man from the Riverlands asked Jon. He was stocky and tow-headed.

"This is Hardhome," Jon said. "In the Far North."

"North of the Wall?"

"Yes," Jon said.

The man buried his face in his hands.

"No need to take on so," Jon said. "We won't enslave you, if that's what you're thinking."

"How will we get home?" the man asked, looking up. "Will you give us one of the ships?"

"If I know the Squids, and unfortunately, I do, there's nothing left of the place you came from now. Is there?"

The man shook his head.

"So no, we won't," said Jon. "We fought for the ships, and we have a use for them. Besides, a single ship would certainly fall victim to pirates in the Stepstones. It would be suicide to even try it."

The man, who said his name was Arley, began to swear and complain about honest citizens having no protection from brigands and pirates.

"What's Edmure Tully doing about it, then?" Jon asked. _Stupid question. Edmure Tully had survived the Wars by being too useless to kill._

"Him!" said Arley, in a tone of deep contempt. "He's doing damn well nothing, that's what. Since the Blackfish died, the Tullys have been worthless."

The men from the Reach had similar complaints about Bronn the Sellsword, who was taxing them mercilessly, and those from Dorne seemed to disdain their new Prince; Jon could never remember his name. They preferred one of the Red Viper's daughters, they said, though Jon couldn't remember her name either. He sighed.

"Is there a land route west?" Arley asked him hopefully.

"No," Jon said, "there isn't. And the Western Tribes in the Far North are cannibals."

Arley's pale freckled face got paler. "Oh," he said.

"But now that you mention it," Jon said, "a land route east to west makes good sense to me. It would certainly help trade. Let's get you all something to eat, then, and we'll discuss it."


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

_Present time._

They left White Harbour a day later, sailing through The Bite and along the coast. The usual route north went east of Skagos, since it was faster, but Arya wanted to see what was going on at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, so she directed her crew to go west of the island instead.

The weather was fine, and they sighted Eastwatch without any trouble. The last time Arya had seen it, it was a smoldering ruin, the Army of the Dead having set fire to it. Now, however, it looked very different. The great look-out towers were rebuilt, round instead of the old-fashioned square style of the older Castle. The bailey, too had been reconstructed; and more importantly, the port facilities were not only rebuilt, but greatly improved, and several ships were anchored there. A stone lighthouse now commanded the end of the spit.

She was both impressed and taken aback as they sailed by. What did the Wildlings have in mind? She talked it over with Brienne but neither of them could put a name to it. Arya hoped Jon could enlighten her, but she was no longer certain that she would even be able to talk to him.

They sighted Hardhome at the end of the third day. Arya did not know what it had looked like prior to the War, but the Harbour, like Eastwatch-by-the-sea's, was obviously recently built - again with high round lookout towers and a lighthouse on the spit of land at the end of the peninsula on which the town was located. There was an elongated bay on the south of the peninsula; to the right was the Harbour, and to the left was the town. There was, Arya noted, a considerable distance between them. The town was surrounded by a wooden stockade; the Harbour had a sturdy stone wall with precisely one gate. A flag flew atop the wall, and it displayed the outline of a shadow cat.

The town was built on a river delta, situated where the peninsula met the mainland, and the entrance to it was protected by stone dykes topped with log walls, the river itself with chains. They had no choice but to turn right and enter the breakwater of the Harbour. It was, Arya thought, disconcertingly large and full of ships. They were, to judge by their appearance, from many different places. Some from Dorne, she noted, some from the Vale, and some from the Stormlands. She even saw a couple from the Crownlands. But there were none from the Westerlands, the Reach, the Riverlands, or the Iron Islands - nothing from the western coast. She saw ships from all over Essos, and even from the Summer Isles. They were busy loading and unloading various cargoes on the jetty.

There were stone-built warehouses lining the shore, obviously for protection against severe weather, though the weather on this day was windy but mild. Arya was astonished by the signs of prosperity in such a remote place.

When they finally anchored their ship, two men appeared on the jetty beside them and hailed their captain. By their accents, Arya judged them both to be from the North.

"What ship?" they asked her captain, who supplied the ship's name, the home harbour, the cargo, and the owner. They wrote down all the information. When they heard Arya's name, however, they became much less friendly. Arya was unaccustomed to hostility from Northerners, and rather to her own chagrin, she resented it.

"What do you want here?" one of them asked, rather roughly.

"I wish to see my brother," Arya said. "Jon Snow."

"What for?"

"That's between us," Arya said.

"Stay here, then," one of the men said. "If you come ashore without permission, your life is forfeit. That's the rule here, and it's strictly enforced."

"I understand," Arya said, in a calm voice, despite the bristling of her crew.

Nearly two hours later, someone finally did come to see them, though it wasn't Jon.

There was a howl of "Big Woman!" and Tormund Giantsbane was very suddenly aboard their ship. He seized Brienne about the waist and lifted her high in the air, and spun her around. "You came to see me!"

Brienne struggled in his arms, but she could make no headway, nor even draw a weapon; he had her arms pinned to her sides. She kicked him in the kneecap, and he gave a roar of laughter and set her down. He then gave her a hearty kiss, right on the mouth. Brienne punched him, but it seemed to have no effect. He kissed her again.

"Ah, how I've missed you, Big Woman!"

"My name is Ser Brienne of Tarth," Brienne said through gritted teeth, pulling away from him and drawing her sword.

"Ser Brienne," Tormund said, with a sweeping bow. "Let me welcome you to Hardhome."

"Hullo, Tormund," Arya said, seeing that Brienne was beyond speech.

She didn't receive anything like Brienne's exuberant greeting. Tormund's face went blank when he saw her, and he nodded.

"Ayra Stark!" he said.

Ayra nodded back. "I'm here to see Jon."

Tormund's face remained blank. "Is he expecting you?" he asked, with exaggerated politeness.

"No," Arya said. "I would have sent him word, but I had no way to do so. No crows here."

"No," Tormund said. "No crows."

"Can you take me to him?" Arya asked.

"I'll have to see," Tormund said, in a neutral tone.

"Can we go ashore? Lord Manderly told me that there are guest houses in the Harbour."

"In a bit, little wolf, in a bit," Tormund said. "I'll have to make the arrangements for that first."

They were on the ship for another hour and a half until Tormund returned and escorted them to a guesthouse in the Harbour. They appeared to be the only guests, which seemed odd to Ayra, especially because the Harbour was packed with people. The staff was very quiet - polite but not friendly nor talkative. But it was clean, and food was available, so Arya made no complaint.

"Did you tell Jon I was here?" she asked Tormund, when they had settled in.

"Well, not yet; he's not here at the moment," Tormund said.

Arya remembered what Lord Manderly had said: the wildlings said he wasn't there.

She looked at Tormund mutely. He looked away.

"He doesn't want to see me," Arya said.

"He wants to be left alone," Tormund answered, scowling at her. "That's not a lot to ask, is it? Your lot fucked him over, remember? He hasn't forgotten it. And we haven't, either."

Brienne said: "You don't understand; Lady Arya is here on an important mission from King Brandon."

Torumund snorted. "What sort of mission?"

"I'll tell Jon when I see him," Arya said.

"I'll see about it," Tormund said. "And that's all I can tell you right at the moment."

"That's not enough," Arya said. "I want to see Jon."

"You'll stay here," Tormund said. "And the same rules that apply to everyone who visits Hardhome apply to you, too. Stick to the confines of the Harbour and your ship. If you go to the town, you won't live long enough to tell anybody anything. Don't imagine Jon will allow you to shirk the rules. He won't."

He looked at Brienne, and for once was serious with her. "I'm not joking, Big Woman. This applies to you, too."

And with that Tormund was gone.

Unfortunately, that sort of statement was challenge to the likes of Arya. Especially as days passed by with no word from Jon. _He's going to do the same thing to me that he did to Sansa._

Arya told herself that she didn't care, but the truth was that she found it to be particularly painful. She had always told herself that Jon thought of her differently from Bran and Sansa, that she hadn't betrayed or manipulated him. But as the days passed by, she was finding that harder and harder to believe. _He thinks I'm no better than they are._

Kicking about the Harbour at Hardhome was interesting for a few days, and she amused herself by losing Brienne, who was, she knew, trying to keep an eye on her. She was impressed by the way the place was organized, and by the amenities available. Besides guesthouses, taverns, and inns, there was a smithy, a hospice for the sick and injured, a school for the children, a public bathhouse, a branch of the Iron Bank of Braavos, a mill, and a large inside market. There was also what Arya judged to be a brothel or two, harbours being what they were, but they were tucked away discreetly. One thing Arya did not see was a Sept; no Sept, no Septas, no Septons, and no Maesters. She did stumble across a Godswood, tended by an eldery man.

"Are you a Green Man, then?" she asked him teasingly.

He was not amused by her sally. "I look after the weirwoods here," he said shortly. "And also the one in the town. Make sure the foreigners treat it right."

"Is the one in the town bigger?"

The man said, with a proud smile: "It's right impressive, it is, and I keep it as tidy as you could wish for."

"I don't see a Sept here, though."

"There is one," the old man said in a disgruntled voice. "In the Harbour only. The Southrons insisted on it. But we won't have any of the grey rats here, not now, not ever. They look after it themselves."

"What do you have against the Maesters?"

"Schemers, they are. And they don't like the Old Gods, nor magic." That about summed it up, Arya felt.

"What's that flag?" she asked him, pointing to the banner.

He shrugged. "We needed a flag for our ships. He wanted the shadow cat. We wanted the white direwolf. He won. "

"Who's 'he'?" Arya asked.

The old man suddenly seemed to realize that he was talking to an outsider. "Never you mind," he said. "I've work to do." And not another word could she get from him.

When she went out to explore the Harbour, she noted a ship-building operation. The ships didn't look like any she had seen before; they had four masts and extra sails at the back. But when she went nearer to have a closer look, she was politely escorted back to the Harbour and told (equally politely) to stay there.

But one day she spotted something white between the Harbour and the town, something that was running swiftly. She sniffed wolf on the air. It was Ghost. She watched as the direwolf disappeared in the direction of the town. _Jon is likely at home, then._

After that, Arya spent a lot of time looking at the town, and wondering what was going on there. She did ask questions of other foreigners, trying to get information, but usually all they did was warn her about 'getting out of line', as they put it. And like Lord Manderly, they told her lurid stories about people who had violated the rules at Hardhome, and suffered dreadful fates.

Arya resisted the impulse to yawn in their faces. Nobody told her where she could and could not go. Not Jon, not Tormund Giantsbane, not a bunch of wildings, and not a bunch of stupid foreigners. She was determined to see Jon, and she would not be put off.

She needed a face other than her own, however, and it had to be that of a dead person. Unfortunately, it also had to be the face of someone who lived in the town, or the Harbour, or she might as well use her own.

That was how Arya ended up at the hospice in the Harbour; it seemed like a logical place to find a dead body. It was located in a stone building, bordering one of the squares, and had a graceful arch at the entrance. The large wooden door was closed but unlocked, and Arya opened it and peered around the door. There was a large room filled with beds. Most of them were empty, but a few were occupied. Those beds had latticed wooden screens around them, so that the patients could not be seen.

The staff of the hospice consisted of an older man from Essos, who was apparently a surgeon; an older woman who was Westerosi, but whose accent Arya couldn't place, and two neatly-dressed younger women.

"Hullo," Arya said to the older woman, "I was just wondering if you could help me."

The woman nodded, but did not, Arya noted, look welcoming.

"My name is Gytha," she said, without warmth. "And you?"

"Arya. My stomach has been upset for a couple of days. I wondered if you could give me something for it."

Gytha regarded her for a rather long moment in silence. "I suppose so," she said, and nodded to the two younger women.

They came forward, and drew Arya away to what was obviously a private consulting room, with a bed, a table and two chairs. They motioned her toward the bed, and she sat down on it. One of them was plump and very pretty; the other thin and boney.

They took turns asking her questions; how long had she been nauseous, when was her last course, and when did she expect her next one, had she eaten anything that had gone bad, and had she vomited more than once? She lied cheerfully in her responses.

They wrote these down on a piece of parchment, which impressed Arya. _Both literate_.

They discussed the matter between themselves in undertones, and eventually the skinny one left the room.

"She's going to prepare a draught to help your stomach," the plump one explained.

Arya decided then that she would now have her turn, and she began to ask the remaining healer questions.

"Is there a hospice in the town, too?"

"There is, yes."

"Are the treatments different there?"

"Somewhat," was the answer.

"Do you work in both of them?"

"Sometimes."

"Recently?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm just curious," Arya said.

"That's dangerous impulse," the woman said, with a benign smile.

"Oh?"

"Yes, indeed, Arya."

"Do you have a name, then? If you do, I haven't heard it, though you're free enough with mine."

The woman blithely ignored her rudeness. "Hjordis is my name," she said, looking amused.

"Where are you from, Hjordis?"

"Hardhome," Hjordis said.

That was an unsatisfactory answer to Arya, but at this juncture, the other healer returned.

"This is Oona," Hjordis said. She looked at her colleague, and said: "She objected to not knowing our names."

Oona surprised Arya by dropping a graceful curtesy, and saying, in a soft voice: "Well, she does have a point."

She handed a glass to Arya. "This should help."

Arya sniffed it cautiously. It smelled of mint, but something in Oona's expression warned her, and she merely sipped it; then she set it down on the table, and thanked them, ironically, for their trouble. "No trouble at all," Oona murmured; Hjordis merely grinned.

As well they might. That night, Arya was thoroughly sick to her stomach, and it lasted all night, though she recovered in the morning. She was indignant, though Brienne was less than sympathetic. "If you wasted their time," she said, "don't complain if they wasted yours."

But it did show Arya that the politeness she had encountered in Hardhome was a veil for hostility. If she wanted to see Jon, she would need to take more risks.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10:

_Four and a half years ago._

The two ships anchored to the south were brought into the delta before dusk. The people confined in these ships proved to be all women. The crews left behind had been occupied in raping them while they waited for the rest of the fleet, and thus they were surprised by the Wilding attack.

"We threw all the Squids overboard," Jarl, the leader of the expedition, told Jon. "No loss."

"None at all," Jon agreed. He trusted Jarl, a tall, grey-haired man; an older wilding with a low-key air of competence.

The women were herded out onto the jetty. Some of the men rescued from the fleet searched desperately among them, looking for loved ones. Jon looked away, and waited. Occasional cries of joy indicated that some were lucky. But most weren't, and outbreaks of despair were common. When the crowd had finally quieted, Jon said: "This is Hardhome in the Far North. You are welcome to stay with us. We don't, by the way, believe in thralldom or salt wives."

"We want to go home!" one of the women cried.

"I'm sure you do," Jon said. "However, doing so is going to be difficult."

"It wouldn't be if we took the ships," another man - not Arley - said.

"The ships are ours," Jon said. "You were on the way to thralldom in the tin mines of the Iron Islands before you came here. We freed you. Remember that."

"We'll send the ships back to you when we get home," the man said.

"No, you won't, because you won't _get_ home," Jon said. "How many times were you attacked by pirates on the way here?"

There was a silence.

Finally Arley said: "Four times."

"The Squids are fine sailors," Jon said. "Their crews are very experienced and very tough. Most of the time, they can outrun pirates. How many times did they do that?"

"Three times," the Dornishman said.

"And the last time?"

"They had to fight."

"And they drove off the pirates?"

The Dornishman nodded. "Yes, they did. But they lost two ships, and quite a few men."

"How many of you have any experience with ships?" Jon then asked.

About ten of the men raised their hands. Most of them proved to be shipbuilders, however, not sailors. The Dornishman and two men from the Reach were the only ones with any sailing experience at all, though Jon suspected several of the men were simply not prepared to admit it.

"How will you get the ships home, then?"

No one answered save a woman in the crowd, who cried: "May the Stranger strike me dead if I ever go onto a ship again!" The rest of the women made a murmur of agreement. Jon judged that they had suffered the most from the predatory nature of the Ironborn during the voyage.

"We can go by land, then," the first man said, in a stubborn voice.

"Well, of course," Jon said innocently. "It's not too far to the Kingsroad. About five or six days on horseback." The Kingsroad was now so unsafe that very few people chanced it, and there were very few horses about.

"What about going to the West Coast then? Along the Wall?"

"The only Wall Castle that's still occupied is Castle Black," Jon said. "The Watch is down to fifty or so men, and they are hard-pressed to feed even themselves. And I might also note that not only are the Western Tribes cannibals, you'll come out not far from the Iron Islands."

This time the silence was longer.

"What shall we do, then?" an older woman said.

"The Wildlings came back here from the South about seven months ago," Jon said. "Now that the White Walkers are gone, we want to rebuild Hardhome. It was a thriving town of three thousand souls in the past. You could help us, and find a home here, at least for a time."

"Here?" The Dornishman said, looking about.

"Yes, here," Jon responded. "We needed ships to establish trade with Essos, and the Squids have provided them."

"What's here that Essos needs?" Arley asked.

"Fish," Jon said. "The fishing grounds are incredibly rich. There are other things, too: timber; silver and iron deposits; furs; sheep and goat fleeces and wool. And I was pleased to note that several of you have ship-building experience. We want to establish a shipyard here, and to encourage trade."

When no one said anything, Jon continue: "Does anyone here _have_ a trade?"

Many hands went up. Jon discovered that there were stone masons, carpenters, brick layers, tilers, plasterers, weavers, glazers, wheelwrights, barrel-makers, farmers, stockmen, and shepherds, as well as labourers among the captured men.

"We have need of all of you," he said. "You can help us, and we can help you. You don't have to stay here forever; eventually you can return to your homes."

"When?"

"When it's safe," Jon said.

The crowd groaned at this. Jon said: "We're already discussing building a version of the King's Road, running east to west."

"And how long will that take?" one of the women asked in a despairing voice.

"It will take time," Jon admitted, "but you are welcome to leave if you wish to."

"But you won't give us a ship," the Dornishman said.

"No; the ships belong to us. Consider your alternative fate had we not freed you."

"You are enslaving us, too!" the Donishman cried.

"That's not true," Jon said, keeping as calm as he could. "You will have to earn your keep here, but you won't be slaves, and you'll share in the things produced and be paid for your labour."

The Dornishman turned away, scowling. The rest of the crowd murmured resentfully, but said nothing more.

"He's going to steal one of the ships," Tormund muttered in Jon's ear. "Just you wait."

Jon sighed. "Yes, I know that. We'll have to watch him closely."

"And you'll have to make an example of him, too, when we catch him."

"He's one of the few sailors in the lot," Jon said. "We'll need him. And making an example of him may cost us the support of the rest."

"So how are you going to swing that, then?" Tormund wanted to know.

"I think it can be done. I want you to keep a close eye on him and also the two Reachers who said they were sailors. The shipbuilders we can't risk; keep them under close guard, and in a separate place. Make sure the others are kept together, and let's get this over with as quickly as we can."

They chose the ship to be stolen and made sure it was at the end of the line, and closest to the entry to the delta. It was, according to the Wildlings who were fishermen, the smallest, slowest and the least seaworthy of the lot. But it would be the easiest to take, and Jon and Tormund deliberately left some of the booty in it. The rest of the ships were completely unloaded and carefully secured.

Three nights later, the Dornishman took the bait.

They had spent the two previous nights on the next-in-line ship, one that had a full crew ready and waiting, and plenty of archers. Once the Dornishman and his crew had dropped the chain and cleared the delta, they gave chase, though holding back a certain amount, because a quick recapture would not help their cause.

But even Jon was surprised at how short a time the Dornishman's ship was on the loose. As his ship passed Skagos, two smaller ships materialized out of the murk of the very early dawn. They were, from their markings, Skagosi. They fell on him with remarkable speed.

"Damn!" Tormund cried. "That we didn't need! Shall we leave him, then? He bloody well deserves it."

"No," Jon said. "I agree, it's damn tempting, but sooner or later, we'll have to clear out the Skagosi. Can't have an island full of cannibals on our doorstep, can we? We might as well start on it now."

And so they did.

Jarl, who as their best seaman commanded the ship itself, had a simple strategy. He aimed their ship, the biggest one captured from the Ironborn, and one with iron-plating at the prow, at the two smaller Skagosi vessels, and rammed them. "There's no point in being subtle with the Skagosi," he said wryly to Jon. It would also hopefully lessen the casualties, so Jon had no argument with it.

One of the Skagosi ships sank almost immediately. That improved the odds.

The other ship was undamaged, but for the fact that it had lost its rudder, so that its crew could not steer it. Their solution to the problem was a simple one; they boarded the Dornishman's ship, which was bigger than their own. Jon feared they would slaughter the rebel crew, but they didn't appear to do so, from what they could see. The Dornishman and his crew were hustled below decks.

"I guess they're just restocking the larder for their next meal," muttered Tormund to Jon.

Jarl snorted, and started closing with the now Skagosi ship. Jon alerted their archers, who massed on the section of the deck closest to their enemy. Several other archers climbed the masts to shoot from on high. Jarl maneuvered their ship as close as her prey as he could and Tormund cried out: "Loose! Loose!"

A hail of arrows rained onto the deck. Both Tormund and Jon joined in. Jon wasn't up to the usual Wildling standard, which was very good indeed, but he had practiced very hard to improve, ever since he had come North. He had become faster and more accurate than before, and had began to appreciate the advantages of bows.

The Skagosi tried desperately to answer in kind, but they had neither the numbers nor the same amount of ammunition. Jarl looked at Jon and asked: "Close and board?" and Jon nodded.

The boarders were wearing hard metal armour and helmets - a gift, so to speak, of the Ironborn - and they swarmed the ship, helped by a net of ropes, and the larger size of their ship. This was where Jon considered himself more useful, and he led the boarding party.

The arrow barrage had been highly effective, but there was still some Skagosi left. They were large, tough men, and the mopping up wasn't easy. "Shall we heave them over the side?" Jarl asked Jon, once it was complete. He looked like he would enjoy it.

Jon shook his head. "No, I have plans for them. We'll take the survivors back with us." Jarl lifted his brows, but said nothing.

Tormund brought the Dornishman forward. His face was cut and bruised, and his sword arm had been dislocated. Jon caught hold of his hand, and pulled. There was a popping sound, and he yelled in pain.

"Sorry; there was no other way," Jon said.

The Dornishman stared at him.

"Do you have a name?" Jon asked.

After a considerable pause, he muttered, "Javier."

"Do you know what would have happened, Javier, had we not been following you?"

Javier did not answer.

"Just in case you don't know, the Skagosi are cannibals," Jon said, raising his voice so that the rest of Javier's crew could hear him. "They especially like to taste the flesh of their enemies."

The Dornishman was proud. He said nothing, and shrugged.

"Shall I land you on the island so that you can see for yourself?"

"You're going to do whatever you want," Javier said. "So why are you bothering to ask me?"

"Not necessarily," Jon said. "If I thought you would steal from us again, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But if you swear you will not, I'm prepared to give you another chance."

Javier looked skeptical, but Jon noted that his posture relaxed a little.

"You all were very angry with the Ironborn when they stole from you," Jon said. "Yet you treated us exactly the same way."

"We just wanted to go home," Javier said.

"Help us build our town," Jon said. "And I will see that you get home. You have my word on it."

"And if I don't accept your word?" Javier said. "You've broken your word, haven't you, and more than once, too. Yes, I know who you are, Jon Snow."

Jon was silent a moment.

"Oaths are mutual," he said, finally. "My so-called brothers of the Night's Watch assassinated me for allowing the Wildings through the Wall rather than letting the Night King slaughter them. Once I died, the oath I swore to the Night's Watch had no power."

Javier said nothing.

"As for Daenerys Targaryen, that oath I broke because she slaughtered a lot of innocent people, too, people who had already surrendered, in the sack of King's Landing. I could not let her repeat that, and I feared she would. That oath I broke, yes; but then so did she. You swear an oath to a person on the promise _they_ make back to you to be worthy of it. Loyalty is not a one-way street."

To his surprise, Javier laughed. "All right, then, Jon Snow, we will all swear oaths not to steal from you again, and you and the Wildlings had damn well better be worthy of our loyalty."


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11:

_Present time._

Arya liked a challenge, or so she told herself. She eventually located the morgue in the Harbour, but the dead bodies she found there proved to be useless. They were all foreigners, and thus not useful for infiltrating the town. She gave up on the idea of using a different face, given that she was not prepared to kill a Wildling to get one.

She then decided to try another way. To do so, she staked out the town, noting when the gate was open and the sort of traffic that came and went from it. The gate was under guard both day and night, and the guards inspected the traffic that went through it carefully. A few people were turned away while Arya watched. Wagons of supplies were taken around the stockade and out of sight. _That means there has to be another entrance._

The stockade also boasted a moat, which Arya thought curious. _It must freeze in the cold weather. That rather defeats its purpose, doesn't it?_

Arya retreated to the heights above the Harbour, and was able to climb up the bluff. Once there, she went far enough west to be able to see the other entrance to the town, though only from a distance. It was larger than the one at the front gate, and there was a large covered section where the wagons were unloaded and the supplies handed through the stockade wall. _No wagons are allowed in nor out. Interesting_.

From the heights, she could also see that the town was far bigger than it appeared to be from the Harbour, and that it stretched quite far back along the heights. The walls looked like they had been extended more than once. Inside she could also see a corral, filled with sheep, right in the centre of the town square, which seemed an odd place for it. She could even see trees within the stockade. _There's a godswood in the town, that old man said. A big one._

But how could she get in? There were three basic ways: the gates, over the stockade, or under it. All in all, she favoured the last. Trying the gates, or going over the wall would attract too much attention, and would be too easy to see. But the moat made going under the wall problematic.

She tried a scouting expedition on the next night, which was luckily moonless, and discovered something else that thoroughly surprised her. The water in the moat was hot; if fact, it was boiling. _Hot spring, like Winterfell._

The moat was also wide, much wider than it appeared from a distance. That meant that you couldn't put a log across it. It was deep, too, which meant it couldn't be waded.

Arya began to feel frustrated. Her persistent inquiries about an interview with Jon were met with equally persistent (if polite) evasions. Gradually the evasions became more evasive and less polite. _They're waiting for me to give up and go home. They don't know me very well. Jon does, however; and so why is he still trying it? _

Brienne had been trailing her at first, trying to keep her out of trouble, she said. But then, very gradually, she began to disappear during the day. Arya deduced that she had found a sparring partner, as she had complained about her skills becoming rusty. Arya knew Brienne longed to return to King's Landing and to her job, and so did not complain over her absences. _I demanded her presence here, but I certainly didn't think I would keep her away this long. Obviously, neither did she._

Arya pondered the situation, and then looked for a coracle. She decided that anything else would be too large and not portable enough. And after a day or two, she managed to locate one in the Harbour, where it was used to inspect the ships' hulls. This time she did use one of the corpses in the morgue for a face. The theft took place during daylight, because Arya wanted the dead man to be seen as the culprit. They then wouldn't suspect her, or so she hoped.

The theft went off as planned, though the daytime heist meant a race through the Harbour, with the sailors in hot pursuit. Luckily, the coracle in question was a wicker one coated with tar, and fairly lightweight. Arya rolled it behind a handy door, and dived into a dark alley. She hopped a fence, and found herself on the edges of the covered market. From there, she was easily able to disappear into the crowd.

She waited two days before trying to breach the walls of the stockade. She retrieved the coracle, and made her way to the town, carrying it on her shoulders. She inspected the two gates, and rejected both of them as a crossing point.

It was just before dawn, and the lightening sky allowed her to see without a fire. She chose a crossing point at the back of the town, where the water appeared shallower. The coracle proved to be a good idea - in theory. After her travels, Arya had become skilled with ships, and had every expectation that handling the coracle would be no difficulty for her.

She wasn't right, as it happened. The coracle seemed to have no centre of gravity. It whirled in one direction, and then in another. The short paddle she had stolen with it was no help at all, as it did not reach to the bottom of the moat; Arya thus could not use it as a stabilizer. She was splashed with hot water as the coracle careened out of her control. It spun across the moat, and dashed up against the stockade wall. It promptly sank, and Arya was left clinging to the stockade wall.

She swore fiercely under her breath as she pulled herself up from the boiling waters of the moat. The water may have been hot, but the air was not, and she immediately became chilled. _ This is not going well, I think._

It got worse. Arya had hoped to cut her way through the lower end of the stockade wall, but it soon became evident that it was backed with a heavy stone foundation. Arya cursed her own stubbornness in attempting this ridiculous enterprise, and then inched along the stockade wall until she found a patch of shadow. She shinnied up the wall, and between the pointed logs at the top. She dropped quietly to the ground.

She was shivering with the cold, and knew she had to find shelter or some kind of warmth soon. The buildings inside the stockade were both stone and wood, and most of them were shuttered for the night. However, the sun was coming up, and the town would be bustling within an hour. Arya knew she had to act fast.

She dropped back to the centre of the town, and found a lane that skirted the backs of the houses that fronted on the main square. By the door of one of them, Arya spotted a basket of laundry, tucked into a corner. The house was still dark, so she drew herself forward and began to rifle through the basket. It was mostly boy's clothing, so Arya quickly exchanged her wet outfit for a dry one. She left her own clothes in exchange, though once she had done it, she realized that it was foolish. She did not, however, turn back. _Don't push your luck. So far it hasn't been that good._

Her new clothing luckily included a hooded cloak. She was still chilled, but was now at least dry, and the sun was now definitely up. It was still quiet. Arya took advantage of the respite to look around the town.

The main square was paved, and in the centre of it was the corral and shelter Arya'd seen from the heights. She also saw guards around it. It seemed odd to guard sheep - and to place them in such a prime location. She edged closer. That was when one of the animals trotted out to the fence, and she was able to take a good look at it. It was not a sheep. Her stomach dropped.

Arya gasped, and backed away. The guards made a closer look unwise. Around the square, she saw several small businesses; none yet open, but several of them preparing for it. She withdrew, and began to look for a place Jon might be staying. She was certain he did not live at the Harbour; so he must be here somewhere.

For the next few hours, Arya trudged around the town, looking for a possible place. She remembered that Sansa had told her that Jon hadn't lived in the chambers set aside for the Lord Commander at Castle Black. Her sister had heartily disapproved of this, saying that Jon had just asked for trouble with the Watch by not embodying his role properly. Arya thought that Sansa had a point; but then Jon did, too. She was unfortunately not sure if Jon had stuck to his previous style or not, and no residence in the town gave her any clues. Most of the houses looked similar to each other. There were bigger houses, but they seemed to house several families at once. It did amuse her to note that town's drainage system seemed very good; the stench of King's Landing was not evident here.

Arya began to grow tired - she had slept very little the night before - as well as hungry and thirsty. The little bit of food she had brought along had gone down with the coracle. She still had her wineskin looped around her neck, however, and finding a shady spot, she sat down and drained its contents. As she sat there, she began to feel rather drowsy.

She woke up suddenly, to the sound of snuffling. Large red eyes stared down at her. She yelped, and rolled quickly aside.

Not quickly enough. A ham-like hand grabbed her by the collar and lifted her into the light.

"I warned you, didn't I?" Tormund cried. He shook her, hard. "But you didn't listen, did you, because you never do bloody well listen to anybody."

"I want to see my brother!" Arya cried, once he eased the pressure on her throat.

"He's your brother now that you want something from him," Tormund said. "Not when you don't! You're no better than the other two!"

Ghost - for the red eyes had belonged to Jon's direwolf - regarded her from a few feet away with melancholy eyes. Arya had the sudden and uncomfortable feeling that Jon was looking at her through them.

"That's not true!" Arya said.

"Well, we'll see, won't we?" Tormund said, turning her upside down and shaking her. As a result, a considerable number of weapons hit the ground.

"I'm sure that's not all of them, either," he said. "We'll do a better search later."

"Let her go, Tormund!" another voice said. It was Brienne, who materialized from behind a building.

"She was told not to come here," Tormund said.

"If you expected her to obey you, then you were foolish," Brienne said. Her coolness seemed to calm Tormund down, and he allowed her to take charge of Arya.

"Were you following me?" Arya asked her. She had never seen any hint of it. _I must be slipping, indeed._

"Yes," Brienne said.

Arya was still rather confused from too much wine on an empty stomach, and said no more.

"Come with me," Tormund said.

"Where?" Arya asked, owlishly.

"You're going to get your wish," Tormund said. "You won't like it, but if you won't listen to reason, what can I do?"

"I'm coming, too," Brienne said.

Tormund regarded her for a moment, and then said, more quietly, "Just as you wish, Big Woman, just as you wish. It scarcely matters now."

"And what does _that_ mean?" Arya said.

"Shut your gob, you. You've caused enough trouble."

"I just want to see Jon!" Arya cried. "Why is everyone being so difficult?"

Tormund laughed, and took her other hand. "You're about to find out," he said.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

_Four and half years ago._

Jon asked Jarl to take the remaining Skagosi ship in tow, much to the latter's displeasure. "Why?" he asked. "It's going to be difficult, with no rudder, and they might send more ships after us if we take too long."

"I want to see how it's built and rigged," Jon said. "Both those ships looked really fast. We could learn something."

Jarl sighed. "When you say 'we could learn something' watch out," was his only comment.

He began shouting at his crew, and Jon was surprised to see that not only they answered his call, but also Javier and company. The men managed to jerry-rig a towing system in record time, and soon they were underway, both Ironborn ships side by side, with the Skagosi ship lashed to the faster one (just in case).

They were back at Hardhome before the sun was fully up, and were met by what seemed like the entire population of the town, both Wildings and Ironborn prisoners. They docked in the delta, and then Jon, Jarl, Tormund and Javier took the shipbuilders to inspect the Skagosi ship while the returning escapees spread the story of the Skagosi attack.

What they found in the hold shocked them beyond measure.

There were a good many human bones, for one thing. For another, in the other side of the hold there was a group of animals secured behind a wall of netting, and who looked fearfully at them when they entered.

"By the Stranger!" exclaimed Javier, who had viewed the bones with remarkable equanimity, given the circumstances. The animals he inspected with a lot less composure. Jon could hardly blame him.

Javier did try to coax them closer, but they would have none of it, piling into a corner, and staring at them, wide-eyed. Jarl snapped his fingers, and Tormund tried enticing them with a bit of meat he fished from his pocket. Jon doubted that these particular beasts were carnivores, and indeed, it didn't work.

"That's not going to do it," Jon said in an undervoice, so as not to scare the beasts. "According to the legends, we need a little girl. Can you find one, Tormund?"

Tormund was gone about twenty minutes, and then he returned with a woman and a small girl of about eight years, holding a bouquet of heather in her hands. Both of the them gasped at the sight of the herd. Jon whispered "Go forward" to the child. She gave him a look, but edged forward, still holding her mother's hand, and using it as an anchor when she leaned forward to offer the heather to the animals.

One of the herd leaned over, and began nibbling on the heather. Though her hand shook, the little girl had a huge grin on her face.

"Back up," Jon whispered to her. "As slowly as you can."

The little girl did as she was bid, and as she edged backwards, the animal came forward. When light from the open hatch hit it, its thick, silvery coat seemed to shimmer in the sun.

"It's a unicorn!" the child's mother gasped.

Jon saw that the creatures had single pointed horns in the middle of their foreheads, as well as thick silver coats.

"I thought they were a legend," Tormund marveled.

"There's always been rumours that there were some unicorns on Skagos, but I can't say I ever took them seriously," Jon said. "Wrongly, from what I see."

They counted eleven of the creatures, in various pale shades. They crowded around the delighted child, gently nuzzling her, and munching on the heather she offered them.

"The attack must have been unplanned," Jon said. "They saw a single ship, and couldn't resist it, even with the unicorns aboard."

This was confirmed by one of the Wildings, who had served time on Skagos as a thrall. He was called in by Jarl, who knew of his background. He was a sturdy, brown-haired man with some unusual facial tattoos. When he saw the unicorns, he started forward, but Tormund caught him by the elbow.

"Your name?" Jon demanded.

"Bjarni," the man said, his eyes straying from Jon's face to the unicorns. He looked astounded.

"Have you ever seen one of these before?" Jon asked him. "When you were on Skagos, perhaps?"

"Only from a distance," Bjarni said. "The priests on Skagos are allowed to care for them, and to ride them. No one else."

"Why would they be in a ship?" Jarl asked him.

"The Feast of Skane," Bjarni said, matter-of-factly. "They reinact it every year at this time. They capture some poor unfortunates for the meat course, and bring over some unicorns for the festivities."

"What is the Feast of Skane?" Javier asked.

"Skane's an island close to Skagos," Jon said. "Once upon a time, the Skagosi paid it a visit in force. They carried off the women; and then they ate the men. The island's been uninhabited ever since."

"That's one way to keep your neighbours quiet, I suppose," Tormund muttered.

"Do they eat the unicorns, too?" Javier asked.

Bjarni was shocked. "No! They revere the unicorns, and they're part of the religious ceremonies."

"A religious ceremony to commemorate a cannibal feast?" Javier said.

"I never said the Skagosi were logical," Bjarni said wryly. "I just said they were Skagosi." Pointing to his face, he said: "See my tattoos? Do you know what they say?"

As they were in the Skagosi dialect, no one in the group did.

"I'm on sale," Bjarni said, laughing. "Half price if purchased before the full moon." Tormund roared with laughter.

"You were marked down, and you think it's funny?" Jarl said, who had laughed only a little.

"You had to be there," Bjarni said, snickering.

"How did you get away?" Javier asked, with interest; as well he might, Jon felt.

"I built a boat on the sly," Bjarni said. "A small one. I thought it would get me home; but I only got as far as halfway through the strait before it sank. Luckily, a trading ship from Essos was passing by and fished me off the wreckage. They were coming instead of going, another bit of luck, or I'd have ended up in the slave markets of Meereen. I managed to get off the ship at Eastwatch, after a good bit of yelling, and a scrap with the Essosi. The Crows weren't too sympathetic, either, I have to say. Then I walked home. Only took me two months or so, and I was only half starved when I got there."

He gave Javier a broad grin; Javier, however, did not look anywhere as jovial.

Jon asked him: "Will they come after the ship?"

Bjarni snorted. "No, they won't bloody well be bothered about the ship. But they'll come after the unicorns, and you can bet on it."

"Ah," said Jon. "We'd better be prepared for that, then."

Jarl gave Jon an uncertain look. "We could send them back," he ventured. "The unicorns, I mean."

"And what message will that send?" Jon said. "That we're scared of them? I don't think that's wise."

Bjarni said: "And I second that. Wrong message. In fact, to the Skagosi, it would be an open invitation. Now that you have them, you'd better keep them."

"We will," Jon said. "And we'll prepare for a visit, too. The Skagosi are not going to catch Hardhome napping twice."

To that end, Jon presented the surviving Skagosi ship to the shipbuilders and asked them to adjust one of the Squid ships to counteract its speed. Quickly. They went to work immediately.

The Wildings and their guests were informed of the looming threat, and it helped that Javier supported them. "We need to work together," Jon informed them at a meeting in one of long houses. He then presented the unicorns to the group, and was surprised by their reaction. Nobody seemed interested at all in returning them to their previous owners. The women in particular, both Wilding and Southron, were adamant on the subject. They gathered round the unicorns in an admiring crowd, petting and feeding them. Jon looked enquiringly at Tormund, who shrugged. "Don't ask me," he whispered.

Jon put the elderly to work making arrows and spears and sewing sails. Those Southrons who had skill with weapons were instructed in Northern military styles. Knives and swords were collected and sharpened. The carpenters built catapults, and the children gathered stones for them.

Bjarni told Jon that the lives of the Skagosi captured by them in the sea battle were forfeit should they have the misfortune to encounter any of their countrymen. His opinion was that they should be released so that they could help in the defense of Hardhome.

Jon was skeptical. "Wouldn't they turn on us?" he asked.

"The Skagosi have a code: you either win, or you die in battle. Capture or surrender means that you're utterly disgraced and they read your name out at the meetings as an ex-Skagosi and a shame to his family and his people," Bjarni said. "I'm serious. And as far as they are concerned, the disgrace is permanent. They despised me, for instance, for that very fault, and I got a good many kicks along the way, to show their displeasure." He laughed as he displayed some wicked-looking scars.

"Could you talk to them?" Jon asked him. "Ask them if they'll help us?"

"You can wager that they would," Bjarni said. "Because if their fellow Skagosi find them here alive, they'll eat them, by way of showing their contempt. They might not torture them first, but only if they're in a really good mood. Or hungry."

As Bjarni predicted, the Skagosi prisoners agreed to join them. They also agreed to explain the flourishes on their ships to the shipbuilders, which sped up the latter's work considerably. Bjarni himself proved to be very helpful on the subject of the Skagosi style of war, demonstrating their various techniques with the help of the Skagosi prisoners.

"They attack in force," Bjarni said. "It's supposed to carry everything before it. So I'd recommend that we attack first. You need to control the battle from the start."

"We'll bear that in mind," Jon said. "What time of day will they likely attack?"

"They like the dusk," Bjarni said. "They'll wait until you relax, and then - " he made a motion of cutting his own throat.

Jon nodded. For the next few days, he drove the Wildings and the Southrons as hard as he dared. He heard no complaints, however. Everyone was aware that their lives were on the line.

So when in the dusk of the third day, their lookouts spotted five Skagosi ships slipping into the Harbour, they were ready. Jon didn't wait until the Skagosi had landed their men; he immediately launched fire boats into the Harbour. Two of the Skagosi ships went up in flames, and one of them careened madlyacrose the Harbour setting a third ship afire when it collided with it. Jon then directed the biggest and most maneouverable of the Ironborn ships to close in on the two remaining Skagosi vessels. The Ironborn ship's rigging was full of archers, and they rained flaming arrows down on their enemies. In the end, all of the five Skagosi ships burned like torches in the Harbour. Only a very few of the Skagosi struggled ashore, and were quickly taken prisoner, much to the chagrin of their ancestors.

Later Jon realized that the Skagosi invasion was the point at which the Far North became an actual entity; able to defend itself and destroy its enemies. The Wildlings and the Southrons had fought together, and after the battle, their relief and joy sealed a certain regard for each other. The Southrons stopped complaining about their fate. The Wildlings stopped complaining about the Southrons.

And everybody got to work.


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13:

NOTE: Jon's real name in this story is Jaeherys, not Aegon. (That name never made the slightest bit of sense to me).

_Present Time_.

Tormund guided them to a neat two-storey house, which proved to contain the town hospice. Arya was delivered again into the not-so-gentle hands of Hjordis and Oona.

"Back again, I see," said Hjordis, with a smirk.

"Are you going to get out your poison, now, like you did last time?" Arya asked.

"Dear one, if _I_ had poisoned you, you wouldn't be bothering us once again. Oona here is a sweet girl, however, who's much more forgiving."

Oona didn't look forgiving, to Arya's eyes. Or sweet, for that matter. She looked ominous.

Tormund said: "Don't dose her. Clean her up and feed her. I'll be back to fetch her in two hours. Provide some food for this lady, too, if you would," he indicated Brienne.

The healers took in Brienne's appearance in silence, and then they did as Tormund had instructed. Arya got the distinct feeling that Brienne's presence had saved her from more tricks from them, and she thanked the Gods for it.

The meal they produced was a good one, and Arya also managed to have a hot bath, which she was rather in need of. Hjordis patched up her cuts and scrapes without comment, and while keeping a weather eye on Brienne. Arya's clothes, washed and folded, were delivered to her. _That means they were watching me a good while before they caught me. _

Arya's satisfaction with herself took a nose dive. It grew worse when Tormund arrived and escorted Arya and Brienne from the hospice. He led them through the town to a medium-sized stone house near the Godswood. Arya could see nothing distinctive about it, and knew that she would never have found Jon on her own. She raised her chin. _Forward, march_.

They entered the home, and Tormund led them into a room on the first floor; it had a fireplace and a large table with several chairs. Jon stood on one side, looking out the window.

"Jon!" Arya cried, and launched herself toward him. He moved quickly behind a chair.

Arya stopped, and stared at him. "Did you think I was going to stab you in the back?" she cried, stung.

"Why not?" Tormund muttered. "His other siblings have."

Arya whirled, and threw herself at Tormund in a flurry of blows. Brienne ran forward, and peeled her off the Wilding. "Stop that!" she hissed.

Jon was looking on. He appeared exasperated. _It's better than Bran's reaction to my bad behaviour, which is no reaction at all._

"Sit down, Arya!" he said angrily.

Arya sat, wondering if she was going to disgrace herself by bursting into tears. _No; not happening._

Jon sat down as well; Ghost glided in and curled up at his feet. Tormund and Brienne dusted themselves off, and then left the room together, much to Arya's relief.

"Arya," said Jon, rather sadly, "why couldn't you just have gone home?"

"Because I promised Bran that I'd talk to you," Arya said. _That's not the reason, and he knows it_.

"Very well, then," Jon said. "Tell me what Bran's message is." _He sounds like he doesn't want to hear it._

"He wants you to help us," Arya said. _Now why did I say 'us' instead of 'him'?_

"I'm not Bran's subject," Jon pointed out. "Nor am I his brother." _Does that mean you don't consider me your sister anymore_?

"Was Rob not your brother?" Arya blurted out, hurt.

Jon's hard expression softened a little. "Yes; Rob was my brother."

"Then Bran is, too."

"Bran _was_. He isn't anymore."

Arya could see that Jon was going to be difficult. She sighed.

Jon said: "What does he want?"

"Aegon Targaryen is planning to invade Westeros," Arya said baldly.

If she expected Jon to evince surprise, she was disappointed.

"Who says?" he said, with what appeared to be little interest.

"Bran does," Arya said. "He says that Aegon has Drogon with him, too."

Jon's eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

"The Meereenese are supporting him, apparently on the promise that he will establish slavery in Westeros, once it's conquered," Arya said.

Jon was still silent. His lack of reaction infuriated Arya.

"Don't you care?" she cried.

"What am I supposed to do about it?" Jon asked her.

"You are a Targaryen! You could take Drogon away from this Aegon, and bring him to our side."

Jon shrugged. "If he's who he says he is, then no, I couldn't."

"Do _you_ think he is who he says he is?"

"I doubt it, but who knows? Maybe he is. In which case, he has more right to be King of Westeros than Bran does. Leave them to it."

"You're just going to let him invade?"

"I'm not going to _let_ him do anything. I don't live in Westeros anymore, as I'm sure you've noticed, and I have no intention of going back there. Not my business, Arya."

"I can't believe you won't help!" she cried.

"I did help the last time I was asked," Jon said. "And you saw how that turned out. No more. Part of being King is defending your realm. If Bran can't do it, then maybe this Aegon might well be a better king."

"You're going to let a lot of people suffer because you're angry at Bran!" Arya hissed.

"I admire Bran very much," Jon said, deadpan. "It's not often that someone becomes King of a country without the slightest qualification for the post."

"You're angry at Sansa, too!" Arya said.

"I seem to be very angry at everyone, in your view."

"Are you angry at me, Jon?" In spite of herself, it was a _cri de coeur._

"No, Arya," Jon said, with a sigh. "The only person I was really angry at was myself."

"You had no reason for that," Arya said, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable.

"Oh, yes, I did," Jon said. "Every time someone asked for my help, I tried to do what they wanted, because I needed their approval. Sam, Lord Commander Mormont, Maester Aemon, Stannis Baratheon, Davos, Sansa, and Tyrion, all of them did it. Flattered myself that I had their acceptance, if they asked, and that they trusted me to do the right thing. Pathetic, wasn't it?"

He laughed, and then went on. "I'm no longer in that business. I'm afraid that probably means that they will transfer their attentions to you."

"To me?" Arya said.

"You can bet that Tyrion's next brilliant idea is that you will assassinate Aegon for him."

"Not exactly, Jon," Arya admitted. "If you wouldnt respond to the greater good argument - that was Sansa's suggestion - Tyrion wanted me to offer you the North for your services."

Jon laughed again, with what sounded like genuine amusement this time. "His effrontery is truly amazing! You really have to admire it. Bribing me with something that doesn't even belong to him; it's classic Tyrion. I'd consider it as funny as hell, except that he actually imagined that I'd accept. Now that's an insult. They really do think I'm a dolt, don't they?"

"No, they think they need you."

"Arya, there are several other explanations. I'm sure you can guess what some of them are."

Arya found she couldn't meet his eyes.

"For instance," Jon went on. "I'm sure Bran does want Drogon. He's looked for him for the past five years."

"Has he? I've been away."

"He has. I know because I've felt the warging calls he sends out. It's not working, and I'm not sure why. Perhaps because Bran is not Valyrian; perhaps because Drogon is so large; or perhaps because he needs to get closer to get a real bead on him. Drogon's been in Essos since he fled."

"You know when Bran wargs?" Arya asked, surprised.

"Mostly not, but those particular calls were very - loud," Jon grimaced.

"But Drogon didn't answer?"

"Not that I know of. I'm sure I would have heard it, if he had."

"Is he still alive, then?"

"I believe he is, yes," Jon said.

"Did _you_ ever call him, Jon?"

Jon sighed. "I was lucky once with Drogon. He didn't kill me after I murdered Dany. I certainly wouldn't count on his good nature a second time."

"Is that why you won't do it?"

"It's one of the reasons," Jon said. "Death by dragonfire is very unpleasant." Arya heard the shrieks and screams of the population of King's Landing yet again. She suddenly felt sick.

Finally she said: "If Aegon can control him, that means he's your brother doesn't it?"

"Not necessarily," Jon said. "Dany always called Aegon 'the mummer's Dragon.' Said she had a vision in which she was warned to beware of him. I think it's more likely that he's a Blackfyre of some description. That means that he might be able to ride Drogon or he might not. The Targaryens always believed that they had to use incest to keep the element in their blood that allowed them to be dragon-riders. But I have no idea how much of it is actually required."

"So he might be able to ride him, even if he's not a Targaryen?"

"He might. I don't doubt that Drogon is lonely. His siblings are dead, and so is his mother." Something in Jon's voice made Arya wince.

"But he won't answer Bran's calls, Jon."

"The two families that never intermarried prior to my parents are the Targaryens and the Starks," Jon said. "Bran doesn't even have a drop of Targaryen blood to ease his way. And Drogon might find warging repugnant, especially a warging attempt by a stranger. Dragons are not beasts, you know."

"I suppose so," Arya said.

"And consider this: just supposing I try to capture Drogon for Bran, and Drogon kills me, Bran is still ahead. In fact, that may be the whole point of this exercise."

Arya stiffened: "Do you really think I'd have anything to do with that?"

"No, Arya, which is why they spun you this unlikely tale. Why would Aegon invade Westeros if he could have the riches of Essos instead? To be frank, Westeros is no longer worth invading. The country's in complete chaos, and the people who can leave have already done so."

"And coming here."

"Some have," Jon admitted.

"Sansa thinks you're scheming to undermine the North," Arya blurted.

"I know she is," Jon said. "She tells that to everyone she encounters, so I could hardly not know."

"Is it true?" Arya asked him, abruptly.

"Not deliberately," Jon said. "But like Cersei and Littlefinger, she's much better at scheming to get power than knowing what to do with it when she has it. There's a lot she could have done, but placating smallfolk was not among the lessons Cersei could teach her." _ He's too hard on her, but I understand why_.

"Lord Manderly told me about the letter Sansa sent you, too," Arya said. "Apparently you didn't answer."

"You _have_ been busy," Jon said. "I didn't answer the letter, true enough. There was no real answer to make. I did not want to offend Sansa by refusing - no point in deliberately making enemies, especially on your own borders. However, I very definitely didn't want to marry her, either."

"Why not?" Arya asked. "She's beautiful, and owns great lands. It would have solved a lot of problems."

"For her, but not for me. I'm tired of solving other people's problems. And I suspect such a marriage would require heirs, and alas, there would have been none."

"Why?" Arya was surprised.

"It would have to be consummated, wouldn't it, and Sansa strongly resembles your mother. Both physically and in character. There is simply no way I could sleep with her. Ever."

Arya, despite everything, snickered. Jon smiled.

"No offense was meant by that, you understand, but how am I to explain it to her? Sorry, the nasty memories I have of your bitchy mother means I can't ever fuck you? Not very flattering. So I didn't answer, in the hope that she could think I hadn't received it."

"That sounds so odd," Arya said, trying to stifle her semi-hysterical giggles.

"Perhaps," Jon said. "But Sansa's also still married to Tyrion, as far as I know. Another profound anti-aphrodisiac."

He then gave her a sharp glance. "And what about you and Gendry? I hear he's fancy free again."

Arya snorted: "Why is it that everyone asks me about him? He's as dumb as a bag of hammers!"

Jon shook his head. "He's brilliant at one thing in his life - being a smith, and shaping metal - which is more than most of us can boast. Don't be a snob, Arya, it ill-becomes you."

Arya flushed with embarrassment. "If I marry him, I'd have to do all the scut work that he doesn't find interesting. Well, I don't find it interesting, either."

Jon said: "Well, that's a better excuse. A definite con. On the pro side, he's good-looking, brave, and he wouldn't mind you completely dominating him, which you undoubtedly would, given that you are not only smarter but far more ruthless."

"Is that an insult?" Arya asked, on a genuine note of inquiry.

"Not in the slightest, little sister. It would just make your life easier if he accepts his fate, that's all."

"It sounds like he's being sacrificed," Arya complained.

Jon laughed. "I'm sure there are compensations!" he said, and Arya found herself smiling.

Arya said suddenly: "I'm sorry, Jon."

"For what?"

"Coming here. Bothering you. I don't know why I allowed them to talk me into it."

"Well, as I said, they need another whipping-boy, and in my absence, I suspect you're it. Before you know it, you're doing something that every instinct you own is telling you is a bad idea, for you, at least. Who convinced you? Not Bran, I know. Tyrion?"

Arya sighed. "Sansa."

"You'll have to watch yourself with Sansa," Jon said in a dispassionate voice. "I don't consider it her fault, let's be clear on that, but she had to learn to survive in King's Landing, and her teachers were two of the vilest people there, a large statement by any standard. You'll never be able to trust her, Arya. Nor will anyone else. Yet another reason I didn't want to marry her."

"Jon, you're wrong. She's having a very difficult time. Emotionally, I think she's going to pieces -" she stopped, seeing a pitying expression on Jon's face.

"I'll just bet," he said. "She knew that Bran wouldn't convince you. She also knows that you don't like her much, never did. That doesn't mean she doesn't know how to manipulate you, Arya. Just be careful about that. I'll accept that she can't help herself. That doesn't make her any less dangerous, and I'd rather keep a considerable distance from her, and I suggest you do, too."

"I can't," Arya said. "She seems so alone. I promised I'd help her if she needs it."

Jon groaned loudly. "Can't you take me as a dire warning?" he asked her. "You shouldn't have to repair Sansa's life for her. She has to do it, or find someone else to do it. If it's you, you'll be doing the scut work that you said bored you, without the compensation of a husband and children. And believe me, if you turn things around, she'll manage to be jealous of you for it. It's a no-win situation, Arya."

"Just because it happened to you -" Arya cried.

"As to that, I kinow I made plenty of mistakes along the way," Jon said dourly. "I learn more slowly than the Starks, but then I lacked the advantage of a wicked mentor. Sansa found my naviete infuriating, and from this viewpoint, I can quite see why."

"And did _I_ have a wicked mentor?" hissed Arya.

Jon didn't blink. "You certainly did," he said. "Bran did, too. It allowed you to survive, if nothing else. Rob, Rickon and I all died, and perhaps it was because we didn't; I don't know."

"Well, since you seem to think our family exploited you," Arya said, in a sarcastic tone, "will you you allow me to compensate you by repairing _your_ life?"

"Now that you mention it," Jon said. "I do need a Master of Ships."


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14:

_Four and a half years ago_.

Jon and Tormund now knew they had a brief window of opportunity before the Skagosi who had stayed behind realized that their raid had been a failure. After they mopped up the survivors of the Skagosi raid on Hardhome, they immediately readied their own ships for a reciprocal raid on Skagos.

Bjarni proved to be a mine of information for this particular project. He knew the strength of the Skagosi forces, and how they fought; and he had numerous suggestions to make on the question of how to proceed. "Get to the priests, and quickly," was his advice. "A nasty, bloodthirsty lot they are. It won't be easy, either; they tend to hang to the back of any charge. Big talkers, they are, but they don't lower themselves to fight, or anything of that nature."

There was only one large settlement on Skagos, according to Bjarni, though there were at least three noble families, complete with sigils, and keeps: the Skanes, the Magnars, and the Crowls. All three houses had a chequered history. "Watch your back around them, let's say. But there is one thing: all three of them hate the priests, and think they have entirely too much power. They don't like the cannibalism they encourage, either."

That sounded like an opportunity to Jon. He had suspected that the noble houses might not relish the reputation of the Skagosi, and here was confirmation. "What do the smallfolk think?" he asked.

Bjarni snorted. "The priests used to have a good deal of support from them, back in the day," he admitted. "But they've gotten too powerful, and once they got to that level, they abused their privileges. They oppress the smallfolk, demanding money and unpaid services. They extort the noble houses, too. They're arrogant and violent, and the rest of the Skagosi aren't happy about them."

"Do the priests live in one place?" Jon asked.

Bjarni gave Jon a shrewd glance. "Yes," he said. "I'll show you." He then drew a crude map of the islands for Jon and Tormund. The priestly residence was a stone house at the back of the settlement, with a fine view of the sea. Jon noted that there was a road that bordered it, the same road that led from the sea.

And it was up that very road the Wildlings charged when they landed at dawn on Skagos. The priests were not expecting them, which made what followed easier. They were all taken prisoner, and led through the slumbering settlement to the Wildling ships. They then set sail for Hardhome. The only other things the Wildlings took were the eleven unicorns they found in an adjoining stable block.

Several days later, three ships appeared outside the harbour, the chains preventing them from entering it. Jon, Tormund and Jarl had expected them, for Bjarni had predicted their appearance. What they didn't expect was that each of the ships flew a different sigil - the three noble houses of Skagos. They also flew a flag of parley.

Tormund looked at Bjarni. "Do we attack them now or let them land?" he asked. All their ships had crews and were ready and waiting.

Bjarni considered it. "If they were flying the flag of Skagos alone, I'd say attack," he said. "But they aren't. The flags of the three noble houses aren't the same thing."

"How so?" Jon asked.

"They act both with the rest of the Skagosi, and independently as well," Bjarni said. "They hate the priests because they've been coerced by them into certain things, and even more irritating to them is paying for the privilege. The priests tax everybody, and they're damned greedy."

Representatives of each of the three ships were duly invited to come ashore. Jon saw no reason to trust any of the Skagosi, however; archers were prominently stationed at the walls of the Harbour. And he made sure that the meeting was out of the firing range of the Skagosi ships.

The heads of the three Skagosi families were a frail-looking man with a long, thin white beard; a burly man with a shaved head, and a short younger man with white blonde hair and beard, and shrewd eyes.

"The white beard is Ellyr Skane," said Bjarni, in an undervoice to Jon and Tormund. "Don't be deceived by his looks. He's as tough as boot leather. Very old boot leather, that is. The shaven pate is Yan Crowl. He's the least of the three in terms of land and money, and he resents it. He's also the least of the three in terms of brains, so he's easy for the other two to manipulate. The youngling is Erling Magnar. Looks like a faint of heart, doesn't he? He isn't. The three families war among themselves at various times, but one thing unites them; they all hate the priests."

Jon, the Wildlings, and the Ironborn prisoners met them in the square outside the Harbour wall. They were offered bread and salt, and they accepted it, rather to Jon's surprise, and certainly to his relief.

"You are welcome here, gentlemen," he said to the three men, raising his voice so everyone could hear him.

"You surprise me, youngling," said Skane, in a paper thin voice that still had something of a razor's edge to it. "You've attacked us twice, and you say we are welcome?"

"You are mistaken, ser," Jon said politely. "The truth is, two of your ships attacked one of ours a few days ago, because they deemed it rich pickings for little risk. If they were mistaken, it is hardly our fault, is it? Then five of your ships attacked Hardhome itself a few days after tjat. Again, is it our fault we drove them off?"

"You took our unicorns," Crowl said. "They are sacred to our people."

"Not so sacred that the ship that carried them didn't pause to attack us," Tormund pointed out. "We could have killed them; we didn't."

"You can't tell us that you didn't attack us on the last occasion," Magnar said, amusement in his voice.

"Not you," Jon said. "Your priests. We understand they are responsible for forcing cannibalism on your people, and we held them liable for the attacks on us. We have no quarrel with you. We didn't raid your keeps, nor harm anyone else in your settlement."

"No quarrel with us!" Crowl cried. "How many of our people have you killed?"

"Not as many as you did when you destroyed Hardhome in the not-so-distant past," Jon said.

Even Magnar bristled at this. Jon said quickly: "Your islands should be prosperous, but they're not. You should be trading with your neighbours, and with Essos, but you're not. And why is that? It's your reputation for violence and cannibalism. For attacking your neighbours, instead of living in peace. For piracy. For luring ships to Skagos with fake lights and then plundering them and eating their crews. And for that, we blame not you, but your priests."

Magnar looked around. "Where are they, by the way?"

Jon smiled. "They're in a safe place, I assure you."

"Indeed," said Skane. "And where is that?"

"That's not important now," Jon said. "We wish to offer you an alliance, one that we can both profit from."

"You've some nerve - " Crowl began.

"You don't know the half of it," Tormund muttered.

"We can fight each other to a standstill," Jon said. "Or we can co-operate. I want to establish a trading relationship with Braavos. Gather a fleet - we need a fairly large one to protect against pirates. You can join with us."

"We are part of the North," Skane said. "Not the Far North."

"And when's the last time you had any assistance from them, or paid them any taxes?" Jon asked him.

Skane gave him a sour smile. "Since before I was born."

Jon nodded. "Exactly," he said. "I'm not asking you to become part of the Far North, I'm just asking for the sort of co-operation that will benefit the both of us. From what I saw last night, your smallfolk are living in poverty."

"So are we!" snarled Crowl. "Those damnable priests take everything!"

"How did they get so much power?" Jon asked.

Skane shrugged. "They've always been powerful on Skagos, but it has gradually become worse."

"Do you believe in the Seven?" Jon asked.

"No," said Magnar.

"The Old Gods, then?"

Magnar shrugged. "Our religion is a form of it," he said.

"A very odd form of it, I'd say," Jon said. "The Old Religion never had priests, nor cannibalism. And slavery is not allowed in the North."

"There's cannibals a-plenty in the Eastern Mountains," Skane pointed out with a sneer.

"That's right," Jon admitted. "We intend to eradicate it as soon as we may."

"I'm sure," Skane sneered.

"I _am_ sure," Jon replied. "We can't progress with that sort of thing going on. What about you?"

"What d'ye mean?" Crowl answered when Skane wouldn't.

"Are you prepared to actually do something about your situation?" Jon asked. "Or are you just going to complain about it?"

Skane glared at him. "What can we do?"

"Simple enough," Tormund rumbled. "Kill your priests."

Crowl cried: "We can't do that!"

"Well, if that's the case, Skagos will be a poor and violent backwater until the ends of time," Jon said. "This is your opportunity. You may never have a better one. Are you going to take it or not?"

"I say we take it," Magnar said, staring at Jon.

Crowl was against it, but Jon could see that Skane, who was the deciding vote, was torn. He _had_ become more used to complaining than doing, and he was an old man, though not as old as Jon had first thought. But he was also shrewd, and it _was_ a good opportunity.

"Alright then, suppose we take the offer?" Skane said suddenly.

"Your smallfolk will need help," Jon said. "You'll have to support them while you switch over from piracy to trade. If you're willing to make the investment, you'll have future prosperity for you and for your people. It won't be easy, and you'll hear plenty of complaints along the way. But it's certainly better than what you have now."

Skane considered it for a moment, and then gave a decided nod. "Alright. We can't go on as we are." He looked over at Crowl. "Stop your moaning, Yan. If you think the priests haven't thought of getting rid of us, you're dreaming. They have, and I've been warned about it more than once, especially recently. It's us or them. Easy choice, I'd say."

He and Magnar managed to convince Crowl, though it took some time. Finally they asked Jon and Tormund where they had imprisoned the priests.

"Well, as to that," said Tormund, "it just so happens that on our trip back from Skagos, the ship carrying them struck a rock and sank."

"Imagine that!" Magnar said, stifling a grin.

"Shocking, it was," agreed Tormund. "I guess swimming lessons are not part of the training of Skagosi priests, because they all drowned."

Skane gave Jon a baleful look. "So what was the point of this conversation?"

"The point was, we wanted your agreement," said Jon. "Which you eventually gave us."

"And if we hadn't agreed?"

"I'm guessing your ships would have struck rocks, too," Tormund said, in a jovial tone.

Jon smiled. "It would have made things much more difficult, let's say, but we would gone forward in any case. We are very glad, however, that you saw the practicality of our suggestion. We would prefer to have allies, not thralls."

Skane said: "We want something to seal the deal."

"We killed them for you," Tormund said. "You can blame us, and you don't have to take yourselves. That should seal it."

"Something else," Skane insisted.

Tormund sighed. "And they say the Skagosi priests are greedy!" he said in an undervoice to Jon.

"Which is?" Tormund asked Skane, in a impatient voice.

"The unicorns you took. I doubt that our smallfolk will regret the priests, but the unicorns, they would. They are sacred to us."

"The ones we took, you will get back," Jon said. "As a gesture of goodwill. The ones we captured, however, we shall keep."

"They are not sacred to _you_," complained Crowl.

Tormund laughed. "You'd be surprised," he said. "The females in this settlement would have our guts for garters if we returned them all. My balls are sacred to me, that's all I can tell you. So you'll only get half of them back, and count yourself lucky to see that many. Now come inside and have some ale. It's time to for us to get drunk."


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15:

_Present time_.

"Master of Ships?" Arya said, surprised.

"Indeed," Jon said. "If you wanted, I suspect that you would do the job very well."

"Your suspicions are irrelevant," Arya said. "I'm _not_ doing it, because I'm_ not_ staying here."

"Of course, if that's your choice, though I doubt you'd like the alternative," Jon said.

"Which is?" Arya asked.

"You were warned, Arya, you do remember? Repeatedly. And you ignored the warnings, because we all know that the rules don't apply to you, don't we?"

"No, they don't," Arya said, not mincing matters.

"They do here," Jon said, stone-faced. "I can't let you off just because we're related. The rules are: stay in the Harbour. You were also told what the penalty is."

"It's death, isn't it? Or something like that."

"Yes, something like that. No exceptions, either."

"So what are you waiting for, Jon?"

"Well, if you cared to join us permanently, there'd be a stay of execution, of course. That's all I can say for now. I can't have you tell Bran every last detail of our operation, and you certainly had a good look at everything."

"Bran already knows, Jon."

"No, he doesn't. I didn't kill all the crows north of the Wall for no reason, Arya. And I've learned ways to block him, at least from up here."

"But you'd let Brienne go, wouldn't you?"

"No; because of your bad behaviour, she has to stay, too. I don't doubt she'll be more useful than you would, as well as making Tormund's heart beat faster."

"You'll kill both of us, if we insist on leaving, you say?"

Jon laughed. "I doubt I'd be close to a match for either one of you. However, even the greatest of warriors can be outnumbered."

"Is that a threat?"

"It certainly is that, yes."

Arya stared at him. His face gave nothing away. He looked very little older than Arya remembered, and he was a lot calmer. She didn't remember that as a quality in Jon previously.

"Bran would never allow that," she said.

"You mean Tyrion," Jon said. "Bran doesn't care about people. If you died, he'd shrug. Tyrion runs things, and I'm rather sure that you're high on his shit list, along with me, and the poor old Mummer's Dragon."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Tyrion means to be Bran's heir, I think. It makes sense. Westeros, however, might well prefer you."

"Bran doesn't plan to die," Arya pointed out.

"None of us plan that, Arya," Jon said. "We all die anyway. Some of us more than once."

"Tyrion would have to kill Sansa, too, wouldn't he?" Arya pointed out.

"His wife? Why would he kill her? She's the source of his claim."

"Jon! She has no use for Tyrion. She told me so herself."

"She _says_. They're still married, I notice."

"Your suspicions of her are worse than hers of you, and that's saying something."

"She trained me well to suspect her, as did Tyrion himself. Remember a couple of things about your goodbrother, Arya. He murdered his own father - for that I don't blame him one bit, given Tywin Lannister's character - but he also murdered his whore. For that I do blame him."

"She betrayed him." Arya said. "Gave evidence against him at his trial, or don't you remember?"

"And what choice did she have? She's a whore. No power, no choices, no future. He bitched mightily about his family's interference in his first marriage, but I think their skepticism was fully justified."

"So what are you saying, Jon? That Bran, who knows everything, doesn't know about this?"

"Bran does know a lot, but he doesn't know everything," Jon said. "He just pretends that he does, by way of keeping everybody in line. And Tyrion's smart enough to avoid leaving a trail, or at least the sort of trail Bran can read."

"You think Tyrion's going to kill the Mummer's Dragon, too?"

"He'd rather I did it for him, I think," Jon said. "Or Aegon kills me. Hence your presence here. The Mummer could become King of Westeros rather than Tyrion with my goodwill, but in the end, the same problem arises."

"You mean that the Mummer's Dragon would want to eliminate you as a possible rival claimant."

"Exactly. And you, too, Arya; and perhaps Sansa as well. Though he might decide to marry her instead."

"And not me?" Arya laughed. "I'm insulted."

"Don't be," Jon said, with a smirk. "It's just your reputation preceding you."

"Well, that's a bit of a problem, isn't it?"

Jon laughed. "You could call it that."

"What are you going to do about it, then?"

Jon shrugged. "I don't know yet." Arya felt that this was an evasion, but she didn't press him about it.

"What are you doing up here, Jon? You were supposed to rejoin the Night's Watch."

"I decided not to, when I got there."

"I noticed. Any reason?"

"I loathed the Night Watch. They murdered me, you do remember that? Good enough?"

"I suppose it will have to do," Arya said, grinning. "It's good to see you, Jon."

She hoped Jon would reciprocate, but he didn't, looking at her with a melancholy expression on his face. He suddenly looked much more familiar to her. _He looks like Father. He always did, the most of all of us, and he wasn't even Father's son._

"Arya, I had hoped you had found the land you were looking for and were staying there."

"Well, I didn't. To the West of Westeros is a whole lot of water."

"And to the North of Westeros is a whole lot of ice and snow."

"I noticed that, too. Do you like it here?"

"I like the people, very much so. And I prefer the Far North to any part of Westeros."

"Why?" Arya asked simply. "There's nothing to do here."

"There are endless things to do here," Jon protested. "We need roads, bridges, forts, ships -"

"You're acting as a King, in other words."

"The Far North is governed by a counsel, Arya."

"Yes, I just bet it is."

Jon shook his head, and refused to mirror her grin.

"You're draining the North of people, Jon. I saw it myself, and Lord Manderly confirmed it."

"We need skilled workers here. We pay them well. They are not forced to come here, nor to stay here. I imagine that they will go home eventually, or at least some will. I don't want to cause Lord Manderly any trouble. I always respected him. He was genuinely loyal to the Starks, one of the few Northern lords who was."

"He says White Harbour is making do, but that the Wildlings are tough competition."

"Hardhome was a thriving town about three hundred years ago," Jon said. "We knew it could become one again."

"Are you trying to pay Sansa back, Jon? Just asking, of course."

"I'm sure she thinks so, but no. Father never made as much of the North as he could have, and unfortunately, she's no different."

"In what way?"

"I think Father was too devasted by the War, and from having to hide me, to take any risks, unfortunately. Sansa won't, either. She's too busy trying to read people's ulterior motives, to be able to tell when they don't have any."

Arya noticed his reference to Ned. "You're still calling him Father?"

"He was the only father I ever knew," Jon said, shrugging.

"You're not angry at him?" Arya asked, tentatively.

Jon stared at her. "Why would I be angry at him?"

"He didn't tell you the truth before you went to the Wall, Jon. I was sure you weren't happy about that."

Jon said: "And what do you think I could have done with the information? Not very much good, I'm thinking. Telling me something like that; I was too young, and wouldn't have kept it to myself. It would have endangered the whole family, and he had to think of that. He did his best, Arya. That's all you can ask of anyone."

"Would you feel that way if he were still alive?" Arya asked. She had often wondered what she would say to her Father if she still could. '_You should have killed Cersei when you had the chance' would probably be head of the list._

Jon gave her a sharp look. "Perhaps not, I don't know. But I still miss him, and I wish I could talk to him now."

"Me, too," Arya admitted.

"Oddly, that's the thing I miss the most. There are so many questions that I'd like to ask him."

Arya sighed. "Tell me about it," she said.

Then she looked at him and said: "Are you really going to kill me if I go south, Jon?"

"You'll betray me if you return to King's Landing, Arya," Jon said. "You won't be able to help it, but you will."

"And I'm supposed to live the rest of my life with the view of not betraying you, and only that? That's a lot to ask."

"Indeed it is," Jon said. "Except I think we're coming to a _denouement_ soon. Westeros is on the verge of collapse."

"Who says?"

"The Braavosi," Jon said. "They stopped lending Bran money about four years ago. He went to the dodgier money lenders at that point, but I understand that they're no longer prepared to lend money to him any further as well. That means that both they and Braavosi will want to collect."

"How?" Arya whispered.

"The Mummer's Dragon," Jon said. "They'll support him. They _are_ supporting him."

"Do they know about you?"

"The Braavosi? I think so. They have an excellent spy network."

"And they didn't offer you the throne?"

"They think I'm far too stupid. I don't resent the conclusion, either; it's based on a litany of mistakes."

Arya looked around. "You appear to have learned from them."

Jon smiled. "The Far North is run by a council, little sister."

"Yes, right, of course."

"I don't want to be King," Jon sighed. "I'm happy here; the happiest I've ever been in my life, in fact. How many of the Kings survived the War of the Five Kings? Joffrey, Stannis, Renly, Balon Greyjoy, and poor Rob, the Gods rest his soul; they all died violently, two of them killed by their own brothers. Stannis, a man I would have thought incapable of it, burnt his only child to death. For ambition, for power. Shireen loved and admired him, and I'm certain he loved her, too, but that didn't matter in the end, compared to power. And then he and that lunatic wife of his stood and watched their child burn, and did nothing useful while she pled for her life. And they were surprised when his army deserted him!"

Something in Jon's face frightened Arya.

"And I've come to the conclusion that seven kingdoms would be better than one," he said, seemingly pulling himself back together, and away from whatever had scared her. "Like the Essos city-states."

"If you became King, Jon," Arya said, "You might prevent another war."

"And I might cause one, too," Jon said. "It's no use, Arya; I haven't the instinct for power. When I found out who I really was, it was too late. I had become content to be Jon Snow, and I had no interest whatever in being Jaeherys Targaryen."

"You never even gave it a try," Arya pointed out.

Jon smiled. "True. And I don't want to."

"You may have to, Jon, otherwise you're dead."

"There is that, of course." Jon's face was unreadable.

After rather a long silence, Arya asked: "What shall I tell Bran, then?"

"Tell him you think I'll do it, but I'm requesting more information on Aegon, because right at the moment, I don't think it's necessary. I want to see what they say."

"He'll know I'm lying, Jon."

"You're not lying, little sister," Jon said with a smile. "You're not lying at all."


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16:

_Four years ago_.

Tycho Nestoris was a tall man with a thin, crooked nose, cold eyes, and a smooth manner. He had shaved his beard since Jon last saw him; a mistake perhaps. To Jon, it made him seem less imposing.

"Gentlemen," he said to Jon and Tormund, nodding in their direction, though without much obvious interest.

Jon bowed back, while Tormund merely scowled.

"You insisted on seeing me," Nestoris said, in a 'you're-wasting-my-time' tone.

"Yes, we did," Jon said.

"I remember you well, Jon Snow," Nestoris said. "I also remember that the Night's Watch still hasn't repaid that loan."

"Yes, they did," Jon said. "Or don't you think helping to stop the Armies of the Dead was a sufficient repayment? Don't think that the sea would have stopped the Dead from spreading to Essos and appearing outside your walls. They would have frozen it, and charged over."

"A loan is a loan," Nestoris said. "And a loan has interest."

"You knew it was unlikely to ever be repaid in the form of money," Jon said. "It was investment. A shrewd one, too, I think."

"Your opinion is golden, of course," Nestoris said.

"It could be," Jon said, not giving an inch.

"I'd love to hear it, then," Nestoris said, in a bored tone.

"We want another loan."

Nestoris closed his eyes briefly. "You have a good deal of nerve, Snow," he said as he opened them.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't," Jon agreed.

"I grant you that. Why should I grant you anything else?"

"Potential profit," Jon said.

"I don't want to hear the word 'potential', thank you," Nestoris said, glaring at Jon.

"Very well, then, pure profit. We've come with several ships, packed with fish."

"What sort of fish?" Nestoris perked up noticeably.

"Salted," Jon said.

Nestoris grimaced. "Slave's food," he said disdainfully. "There are no slaves in Braavos."

"There are, however, slaves in nearly every other part of Essos," Jon pointed out. "It has value on the market."

"Very little," Nestoris sniffed.

"But you were interested until I said the word 'salted'," Jon noted.

"I'm interested in _fresh_ fish. Braavos only deals with the best."

"If that's the only problem," Tormund said impatiently, "we'll pack 'em in ice before we ship 'em, or ship 'em live."

Jon grinned. "As he says."

Nestoris pursed his lips. "And will they stay fresh on ice?"

"Sure they will," Tormund said. "We preserve them like that at home. All we need to do is take the Northern route here, with the winds behind us."

"Do you have any other type of seafood available?" Nestoris asked, suddenly abandoning any pretence of boredom.

"Crayfish, oysters, scallops, mussels, cold-water lobster, eels, salmon, cod, and any other Northern fish you want," Jon said. "Also roe, which I understand is popular in Braavos."

Nestoris bit his lip, and Jon saw that they had hit a nerve.

"We'll have to do a test voyage first," Nestoris said firmly, after a pause.

"Voyages cost money," Jon pointed out. "Buy our current cargo, and yes, we'll try a test run."

They began to haggle furiously, and Jon surprised himself by getting Nestoris to agree, despite a testy exchange of non-compliments. They were given enough money for another voyage, and a decent (if not generous) price for their cargo.

"What about timber?" Nestoris asked. "Do you have any for sale?"

"We do," Jon said. "What sort is needed?"

"We need timber for ship-building," Nestoris said. "Especially for masts."

Jon nodded. "We have that, yes."

"Minerals?" Nestoris asked.

"Silver and copper," Jon said. "Amethyst and jade. The mining season is short, however."

"I can offer prices for all those things," Nestoris said.

"Since we can sell those sort of things anywhere, without worrying about freshness, we want to see who offers us the best prices," Jon said, politely.

Nestoris scowled, and there was another spate of furious haggling. Jon and Tormund, in fact, were already aware of the prices in the rest of Essos, so they had no difficulty in determining a fair price, given that a voyage to other places in Essos was longer, more expensive and less safe than Braavos.

As they returned to their ship, Tormund gave Jon a look, and said: "What was that about timber?"

"We'll sell them some timber at the beginning, while we need their immediate goodwill; but most of it will go to our own shipyards."

"So I should hope, Jon."

"I want some information, too, and I'm betting that they'll give us it if we ask," Jon said.

"Why the hell would they do that?"

Jon grinned. "They'll do it if they think they might profit. We'll need plans of their ships, won't we, to see what sort of timber they actually need. Maybe they can provide us with a whaler while we're at it, or at least a design for one. The Ibbenese don't have any competition, so their prices are high."

Tormund shook his head. "You're damned sneaky for a crow. What was that bit about the things we have for sale? You left several things out."

"Yes, I did. We want a trade deal, not an invasion."

Tormund laughed. "I take your point," he said.

They spent the rest of the day unloading their ships and sailed home on the tide. It took longer than the trip out due to the prevailing winds, but they made good time.

Jon was relieved to see that things had gone well in their absence. Jarl had kept the fishermen at their jobs, but the fish they caught had already been cleaned, so Jon suggested that they try smoking the fish rather than salting it, to see if the Braavosi liked that style better. Then Tormund sent the entire fishing fleet to catch fresh fish. Jon had one ship fitted out with tanks for live fish, another with barrels for the ice-packed variety, and a third for specialties, such as eels and oysters. A fourth one carried some timber, smoked fish, and some samples of other goods.

As Jon had fully expected, Nestoris greeted their reappearance with disinterest. He inspected the goods in their ships, sniffed in disdain, and then offered what Jon considered an insufficent sum for them.

Jon and Tormund exchanged glances. "No," Jon said.

"No?" Nestoris repeated, as if the word was unknown to him.

"If that's the best you can do, we'll go elsewhere," Tormund said by way of explanation.

"And where would that be?"

"We'll try Lorath first, it's closer," Jon said. "Then Pentos."

"You imagine that you'll get better prices there?"

"We can't do any worse, that's for sure." Jon said.

"Make me an offer, then," Nestoris said.

"No," said Tormund. "Cut the crap and the sneering and make us a decent offer. If you don't, we'll go elsewhere. But first I'll take our wasted time out of your hide." He gave Nestoris a hard grin that showed his excellent white teeth.

"Threats won't work," Nestoris said, sniffing.

"It's not a threat, " Tormund said, getting up. "I'll start right now."

Tormund had his fist back, ready to propel it forward, when Nestoris choked out a fair offer.

"That's better," Tormund said, sitting down again. "Jon will write it down, and you'll sign it. You do us wrong, and I swear, I'll hunt you down and tear you limb from limb. Then I'll give the limbs to the Skagosi as a gift for their yearly feast."

"Efficient, Tormund," Jon said, trying to hide a smile.

"I think so," Tormund said, nodding.

"This is coercion," Nestoris cried.

Tormund gave Jon an enquiring glance. "He's saying we forced him," Jon said in an undervoice.

"No, we didn't. We both know what the fair price is. He was just trying to get out of paying one, 'cause he thinks he's smarter than we are."

"I wouldn't dare," Nestoris said, with a sneer.

"That's right," Tormund said. "You deal fairly with us, you snotty arsehole, and we'll deal fairly with you. But no tricks. I won't stand for it."

"I'll bear that in mind," Nestoris said, unsmiling.

"There's a possibly of a profitable deal with us in the future," Jon said. "We're hoping to go into the whaling business like the Ibbenese."

There was considerable animosity between Braavos and Ibben, and Jon knew it. Nestoris gave nothing away but Jon saw that he relaxed, very slightly.

"For that, we'll need some investment," Jon said. "To build up and enlarge our Harbour, and dredge it."

"Why should I even consider that, after that savage threatened me?"

"Tormund is not a savage," Jon said. "But he is an honest man. Remember that. He didn't try to impose an unfair agreement on you, just a fair one. Our relationship can be a very good one for both of us, but don't imagine you're going to exploit us."

"Why not? You're not exactly in a position of strength, are you?"

After a short pause, Jon gave him a sideways look. "And is my cousin repaying the Braavosi loans to Westeros? King Brandon, I mean."

"That's none of your business, Snow."

"Now, there's an interesting investment," Jon said to Tormund. "Baelish was an agent of the Iron Bank, did you know that?"

"Can say that I do, nor do I care, Jon."

"He kept getting loan after loan from the Bank, back in King Robert's day, and well past the point that the Bank might reasonably expect repayment. Shocking, isn't it?"

"If you say so," Tormund sounded bored.

"It turns out that Baelish and Nestoris here were cousins, which might explain a lot. I won't tell you where I found that information, but I assure you that I do have it."

"Is this to my address?" Nestoris said, drumming his fingers on the table, his face tight. "If it is, what of it?"

"It is to your address, and I believe that the point of the it was to make Baelish King of Westeros. Alas for that notion, he was too undisciplined to achieve it."

Shrugging, Nestoris said: "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Ah," said Jon. "I've obviously made a mistake. My apologies."

"Let's get back to business, then," Nestoris said. "You want a loan despite the poor record you have on repayment."

"I might point out that I took out that loan in the Night's Watch's name as Lord Commander, and it's their debt, not mine. However, I'm also aware that since the Night's Watch hasn't repaid the loan I negotiated, it might be difficult to sell yet another one to the Bank, especially with the amount of debt the Crown owes," Jon said. "So this is the offer: five per cent of the profits of all our voyages to Braavos, until the loan is repaid. Then we'll also repay the Night's Watch loan, same terms, same interest."

"Why would you do that?" Nestoris was openly skeptical.

"Call it a debt of honour," Jon said, with a wave of his hand.

Nestoris was obviously suspicious, but the prospect of repayment must have been too enticing to refuse, because after some more haggling he agreed, and even promised to facilitate the purchase of a Ibbenese whaler for the Wildings. He brought himself to admit that smoked fish was popular in Braavos, and arranged to purchase what Jon and Tormund had brought with them. They parted with mutual, if fictional, expressions of esteem.

As they watched Nestoris retreat along the dock, Tormund said: "What the hell was that all about?"

"You mean the Night's Watch loan?

"I do mean that. Why in the Gods' name did you agree to repay it?"

"If we repay it, then the Night Watch owes _us_ the money. I'll make sure that's part of the deal."

"So? They haven't a pot to piss in."

"Very true. But they do have land; lots of it."

"Did I say you were sneaky? That's not the half of it. What land were you thinking of, Jon?"

"Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," said Jon.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17:

_Present time_.

Arya discussed the situation with Brienne later that evening.

"I don't know what to do," she confessed.

"No decision is easy," Brienne said, with a sigh. "And believe me, it gets less and less easy the older you grow."

"I have to think about you, too," Arya said. "If I stay, you won't be able to go home, either."

"My home is Tarth," Brienne said, almost absently.

"Still?" Arya asked her.

"Well, I own it," Brienne said. "I've got a castellan looking after it for me, but to judge by the complaints I get, he's not doing a very good job."

"That seems to be the typical Westerosi lament these days," Arya said.

Brienne nodded. Arya noticed that she seemed very tired.

"Do you want to go home, Brienne?"

Brienne gave her a weary smile. "I'm beginning to wonder," she said. "I used to long for the kind of recognition I've received in the Kingsguard, but now it hardly seems worth the effort."

"Jon seems to think that Westeros is close to collapse," Arya said.

"He might well be right," Brienne said, looking anxious. "What does he plan to do about it?"

"Nothing, he says. Do you think he's telling me the truth?"

"I don't know, do you think he is?"

Arya shook her head. "Who knows? At first, he seemed a lot like I remember, but yet he also told me that he thinks that I'm going to betray him."

Brienne said gently: "Why are you surprised by that, Arya? That's what's happened to him in the past. More than once."

"I know," Arya said, "but how is that my fault?"

"It's not your fault at all," Brienne said. "But you really haven't taken this whole thing seriously, have you?"

"Yes, I have!" Arya cried, stung.

"Not really. You simply wouldn't allow your brother any privacy, or accept that he thought it better not to see you. And now we're stuck with the consequences."

Arya thought this reproof thoroughly unfair. "I just wanted to do what Bran asked me to do, and go home!"

"Home? Do you mean Winterfell?"

That was a poser, Arya thought, and no mistake. Was Winterfell still her home? The idea of returning there and coping with Sansa and her emotional volatility for any length of time seemed very unappealing. She remembered Jon's warning about it, and hoped that he wasn't right.

She told Brienne what Jon had said, and Brienne surprised her by agreeing with him. "I'm very fond of Sansa," Brienne said. "She's had a very difficult time, and was horribly and unfairly treated. But he's correct, for all that; you can't make her life right for her. He tried, didn't he, and I won't make any further comment on how that turned out."

Arya suddenly remembered Jaime Lannister, the victim of his father, his sister, King Aerys, and a cast of thousands. All Brienne's efforts with him had been in vain, because in the end, he'd returned to his abusive and lunatic sister, and died with her. He had simply not been able to imagine living in any other way. Brienne had tried very hard indeed to put a positive spin on _that,_ and for awhile she had managed it. But eventually her carefully constructed house of cards had started to crumble, just like Westeros itself. Arya just hoped that Brienne wouldn't crumble with it.

"I'm sorry, Brienne."

"No need," Brienne said, patting her shoulder awkwardly. "I don't mind staying here for awhile."

That was not what Arya was sorry for, but she let it go. She said goodnight to Brienne and went to her bedchamber, but she found that she couldn't sleep. By focusing on the goal of seeing Jon, she had allowed herself to ignore the hard choices she had to make. Now they crowded back into her head, and leered at her with cheerful hostility. Arya had not wept since she was a small child, but now she wished she could indulge in it, just to relieve the stress.

But she didn't. Despite Jon's cool reception of her, she still felt closer to him that she did to either Sansa or Bran. Though he was bitter, he didn't seem cold; or at least nowhere as cold as Bran. But for all his self-possession, Arya had sensed his anxiety. He was deeply worried about something, and instinct told her it wasn't about becoming King of the Seven Kingdoms.

She sought Jon out again the next day. He wasn't at the house at which she had last seen him, and didn't in fact live there, she discovered. She grimaced, and then managed to politely ask the nearest Wilding (the one who was following her, in fact) if she could see Jon. She waited only a few minutes, until Jon himself appeared and invited her to the cookhouse for breakfast.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked him, with a crooked smile. There hadn't been enough time for any messages to be taken.

Jon smiled. "Pack mentality," he said, Arya laughed.

The cook house was full of people, and though Jon was greeted with affection and humour by the Wildings, there was no sense to Arya that he was treated as a man apart. He snagged a seat at the end of the table, and Arya sat down next to him. The people beside them good-naturedly handed them plates, utensils and goblets, and slid plates of food down the table in their direction. The food was rather cold, but Arya did not complain. Jon seemed not to notice. Sansa had complained about that in the past, Arya remembered. The food at Castle Black was terrible, she told Arya, but Jon appeared oblivious to it.

Jon seemed cheerful, and chatted with the rest of the people at the table. He introduced her to everyone. Arya had the feeling that they already knew exactly who she was. The narrow glances she received confirmed it, though they were at least superficially polite.

After breakfast, they decided to take a postprandial walk, and collected Ghost for the purpose. Jon escorted her up to the top of the stockade walls so they could look at the view. The morning was cloudless and bright, and the view was breath-taking. The wind, though, chilled her bones.

Jon didn't seem to feel the cold at all. He had been like that even as a child, Arya recalled. _It must be his Targaryen blood. _

"Have you thought about it?" Jon asked her suddenly.

"All night," Arya admitted. "I couldn't sleep."

"Why was that?"

"I have the feeling it's an important decision, and making the wrong guess would be disastrous."

Jon looked at her intently. "I won't tell you that you're wrong," he said, "because you aren't."

"What shall I do, then?"

"Don't use your emotions to decide," Jon said, looking glum suddenly.

"Is that what you did with Daenerys?" Arya had noticed that Jon would discuss Bran, Sansa and Tyrion freely, but not his aunt.

"No," Jon said. The light in his eyes went out, and Arya felt sad to see it.

"Then why did you do it? Weren't you afraid of Drogon?"

Jon laughed. "You want to know that I was afraid of Drogon," he said, but Arya noticed that he still seemed despondent. He changed the subject the next minute, and Arya did not press him.

After some innocuous conversation, he returned to the subject at hand: "Are you willing to write to Bran?"

"How is he to get a letter?" Arya said, waving her arm. "No crows!"

"We use hawks," Jon said. "They take mail to Eastwatch, where they switch it over to crows."

"I saw Eastwatch as we came North," Arya said. "It looks a lot different."

"I hope it does," Jon said. "We've put a lot of work into it."

"Why did you do that?" Arya wanted to know. "It's not your property."

Jon gave her a half-smile, and said nothing. Arya managed not to roll her eyes, but only just.

"I'll write the letter," she said sullenly.

"Good," Jon said. "Tormund and I will read it before you send it."

"Don't you trust me, Jon?"

"No."

"Well, that's frank."

"Indeed. Do you trust me?"

"No."

"We're even, then," Jon said, who seemed quite unoffended. "We can't afford to trust one another in this situation, Arya."

"I suppose so," Arya said. "But I hate not being able to trust people."

"You can trust Brienne," Jon said.

"Even Brienne has a weak spot," Arya pointed out.

Jon nodded. "Jaime Lannister."

"Did you read what she wrote about him?" Arya asked him.

"Yes," Jon said, with a grimace.

"Why did he go back to Cersei, Jon? I've never been able to figure it out."

"Self-hatred, I suspect," Jon said. "A Lannister trait."

"I don't think Tyrion hates himself," Arya said.

"You'd be wrong about that, I think," Jon said, "It's what makes him so dangerous."

Before she could answer, he took Arya by the arm and steered her back to the house she had met him at yesterday, and sat her down at the table. Writing materials were waiting. Arya grimaced at the sight of them, but got down to work. After awhile, Tormund and Brienne appeared, and sat down to watch.

After agonizing quite a bit over the contents of the letter, Arya pushed it towards Jon.

"Dear Bran," Jon read aloud. "How are you? I'm well. So is Brienne. We had a quick journey. It's cold here. I've talked to Jon about your request. He thinks it's a stupid idea. Best wishes, Arya. P.S. He doesn't want the North either. PPS. He says you and Tyrion are twats."

"Perhaps a little too frank, Arya," Jon said, over Tormund's laughter.

"You think?" Arya said, trying to sound innocent.

"I do think, though I'd love to send the damned thing to him, just as it is."

"You should," said Tormund. "He's not going to be fooled by anything else."

"Let's tone it down a little, anyway. We're trying to buy some time here."

The final draft of the letter read: "Dear Bran: We have arrived safely in the Far North. I've talked to Jon about your request. He says it's just a rumour, and he's not going all the way to Essos for that. Do you have anymore information about Aegon that might convince him? Because so far I can't. Best wishes, Arya."

"He'll know you dictated it, Jon," Arya protested. "It doesn't sound a bit like me."

"Bran's not exactly big on nuance," Jon said. "Tyrion is, but I think it's close enough."

Arya doubted it, but let him take the letter.

They had luncheon at the house and Jon began to talk to Brienne about engaging her services. He wanted her to help teach the spearwives refined weaponry and riding skills, offering her a generous fee.

"They aren't many horses here," Arya pointed out.

"We're importing some," Jon said. "Big, strong, cold-weather ones, from Ibben, sixteen or seventeen hands. They're going to need instruction on how to handle them."

"You'd have to have feed for them, wouldn 't you?" Brienne was doubtful.

"We're growing it around Eastwatch," Jon said. "Most of the people here can ride in a pinch, but they're not skilled at it, and they don't know too much about horses. You could really help us."

"And shelter?"

"We're building a large stable block adjacent to the unicorn barn. It should be ready in a couple of months."

Arya could see that Brienne liked the idea, and was inclined to accept. But she protested that she was still a member of the Kingsguard, though currently on leave.

"We can't go anywhere until Bran answers the letter anyway," she said. "You might as well take the job."

Brienne said: "Only if you help me."

And that was how Arya and Brienne found themselves teaching Wildling women the art of death.


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18:

_Four years ago_.

Jon and Tormund's deal with the Iron Bank yielded dividends almost immediately. The Bank lent them the money to dredge the Harbour at Hardhome, and the additional space and increased access for larger ships increased the trade traffic in the Far North fairly quickly. The Wildings shipped fish, furs and lumber in their first flotilla, and found eager buyers. They branched out later to other areas.

As long as the Iron Bank collected five per cent of the profits, they were content to continue to direct trade to Hardhome. The first loan was settled within a surprisingly short time; then they started in on the loan to the Night's Watch. The accumulated interest made this a far more formidable proposition, and again Tormund told Jon he thought paying it was a mistake.

"There's two reasons I want to pay it," Jon said. "For one, it gives us a good credit rating with the Iron Bank, which is not nothing. For another, I want the Night's Watch to be indebted to us, and not to them."

"I might agree with you on the first at least," Tormund admitted. "Especially as that snotty prick sent us the plans of that Ibbenese Whaler."

Jon grinned. "That's not because he likes us; it's because he dislikes the Ibbenese."

"What did they ever do to him?" Tormund asked.

"They defaulted on a loan," Jon said. "A great big one, too. And they never did repay it. The Iron Bank has a long memory."

"I'm sure that doesn't scare the Ibbenese."

"It should. Making an enemy like that was a damned bad idea. The Ibbenese could have paid it. They just got a little too full of themselves, and decided that the Iron Bank couldn't make them."

"So the Iron Bank is going to back us against the Ibbenese in a trade war?"

"We're going to sell very similar things to the Ibbenese, Tormund. Until we get established, we need guaranteed markets, or they'll undercut their prices to get rid of us. And as you saw, Nestoris wants us to compete with them in areas we've never even practiced before. The Iron Bank is prepared to back us, and provide us with a certain guaranteed income to start with. We shouldn't miss the opportunity."

Tormund gave Jon a sidelong look. "How did you find out about all this?"

"I've heard rumours," Jon said.

"Beats me where you get your information," Tormund said. "There's no crows anymore."

"Crows are not absolutely necessary," Jon said, in a bland tone.

"Yeah, right," Tormund said, rolling his eyes. "What happens when the Ibbensese forget about the trade element, and just start a war with us?"

"They're not known as fighters," Jon said. "Which is not true of the Wildings."

"The Ibbenese are the best sailors around," Tormund pointed out.

"Yes, they are; but we're learning fast," Jon said. "Jarl and Javier have taught our new crews a lot, and the Skagosi have bought in as well. And I like the adjustments our shipbuilders are making to our ships. Pretty soon we'll be able to show our heels to just about anyone."

"And is it worth it, Jon? Weren't we happier with the old ways?"

"The old ways? And how many Wildling children died before their first name day?" Jon asked in a low voice, without looking at him. "So many that it was considered bad luck to name them until their second nameday."

Tormund muttered: "Low blow, Jon."

Jon knew that Tormund's first attachment had resulted in three children dead in infancy. His wife had then died trying to unsuccessfully birth a fourth. He had had two subsequent wives, and several other children, but the only survivors were two daughters, small girls cared for by his grandmother.

"I'm sorry, Tormund," Jon said. "I don't mean to hurt you, you know that. But it's easy to live as your forebears did, and hard to change things. People fight it, because they're afraid of leaping into a void. Even if the void might be better."

"No, don't apologize," Tormund said, roughly, standing up. "You have a point."

Jon knew this admission was hard for Tormund to make, so he doubly appreciated it. "Better food, better clothing, better shelter, better medicines, they all help," he said.

"You know something, Jon?" Tormund said, suddenly. "Those Ibbenese, they're done like dinner. We'll show them what happens when they don't pay their bloody debts!"

"That we will," Jon said, pleased.

"Is that why you're so set on paying the other debt? The Night's Watch one?"

"Partially, yes. The Iron Bank's support can make or break us, and I'd rather it did the first."

"And what's the other part?"

"The Night's Watch is penniless, and nobody is helping to support it now. Not Sansa, and not Bran. How it is going to feed itself? And what is it supposed to do?"

"What it always did - nothing," Tormund said.

"Your turn for a low blow, Tormund."

"You did it first, Jon, so don't complain."

"Agreed," Jon admitted. "The Night's Watch has no money, but it has plenty of assets. A lot of land, along the border and in Brandon's Gift and the New Gift, forests of timber in the West, and nineteen castles in various states of disrepair. The land, especially in the New Gift, is good. At one time there were hundreds of farms and orchards there."

Tormund was surprised. "What happened to them, then?"

"When the Night's Watch declined, the people in two Gifts couldn't be protected by them any longer, especially in the Western section Some drifted south; some went east to White Harbour. But in its day, that land was valuable, and produced good crops. It also supported herds of sheep, goats, and cattle. It could again."

"The place has no people anymore. The White Walkers took care of that."

"When we become more prosperous, we'll attract more people. People who could farm that land."

"If you can evict the Night's Watch from it, that is."

"I'm not planning any evictions," Jon said. "What do you give to the forgotten who have no purpose anymore?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me," muttered Tormund.

"You give them respect," Jon said.

"Oh, is that all it takes?" Tormund said. "And here we were fighting them all these years!"

"Times have changed, my friend. Times have changed."

Tormund rolled his eyes yet again. "Well, I guess we'll see," he said in a skeptical voice.

The Far North had been paying the Night Watch's debt for some time when Jon finallydecided that the time was ripe for a visit to Castle Black. Given that the Black Brothers might well try to execute him, he went with a sizable group of Wildlings to discuss the situation.

Castle Black looked neglected, Jon thought. Necessary repairs had not been done in some time, possibly due to a lack of money, but more likely due to a loss of hope. Only Tormund, Jon, and ten other Wildlings were allowed into the keep. Jon asked to see the Lord Commander.

He had expected hostility from the remains of the Watch, but saw only apathy. They greeted him without a flicker of any sort of emotion, and took them to the office of the Lord Commander.

Ser Denys Mallister was a man who had given his entire life to the Night's Watch. He had the respect of everyone that knew him, including Jon. But he had been considered too elderly for the post at the time of Jon's election - now he was ever more so. He received them politely, however, and listened carefully to their proposal.

"You understand that I cannot make such an important decision by myself," he said to Jon. "It will have to go an open vote."

Jon and Tormund agreed, and Mallister summoned all of the remaining members of the Night's Watch to the Great Hall. There were so few left that they fit around the great table used in the old days for feasts. Jon surreptitiously counted them; with Mallister included, they numbered just fifty, and nearly all of them were over forty. The younger men had simply deserted.

The Lord Commander stood, bracing himself against the table, and introduced Jon. In fact, he had to; most of the men around the table had manned the outer castles, and Jon was unfamiliar with most of them. That made it easier. He stood up and addressed them.

"I'm glad to receive such a gracious reception, given my history with the Night's Watch," Jon said.

"Have you come back to rejoin us?" one of the brothers asked him.

Jon shook his head. "No."

"You were commanded by the King to do so, weren't you?" another asked.

"By that time, the King had given the North over to his sister, and subtracted it from the Seven Kingdoms," Jon pointed out. "He therefore had no power over the Night's Watch, and no ability to command me to rejoin them, nor command them to allow me to do so."

The brothers considered this in silence for a moment.

"Did Queen Sansa command you to rejoin us?" this was a third man.

"No," Jon said. "She had no power to do that, either. I hadn't lived in the North for some time, so I was not her subject."

"You were Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, that's part of the North."

"That's not correct," Jon said. "The lands of the Night's Watch has been separate from the North for centuries. It was subject only to the Crown of Westeros, until that Crown abandoned it, along with the North."

"Abandoned it?" several people said at once.

"Ask your Lord Commander if the current King of the Six Kingdoms has provided any support for the Night's Watch since he ascended to the throne."

The group looked to Ser Denys, who shook his head.

"And what about Queen Sansa?" Jon asked him. "Has you asked her for support?"

Ser Denys looked at his hands, spread on the table before him. "I asked her, yes. She said it was her brother's responsibility. He said it was hers. As a result nobody has paid anything, nor given us any support."

"That must be difficult to accept given how much the Watch sacrificed in the War against the Dead," Jon said in a low voice.

This statement caused a murmur of resentment. "Everyone's forgotten that," a voice said bitterly. "They don't give a damn."

"I've had to beg, and precious little I've gotten for it," Ser Denys agreed. "And our debts are threatening to overwhelm us."

"I know," Jon said. "I had to borrow money from the Iron Bank of Braavos to keep the Watch fed when I was Lord Commander."

"They used to dunn us regularly for that debt," Ser Denys said. "They've stopped recently, thank the Gods."

"They've stopped because the Wildlings have assumed the debt, and are paying it," Jon said.

He expected skepticism on this point, and he got it. He offered Ser Denys the paperwork to prove it. The Lord Commander read it, and then looked up at Jon. "Why did you do this?"

"We know you can't pay it," Jon said.

"Why should the Wildlings care about that?" one of the brothers asked.

"Because like you, despite all their sacrifices in the war, no one has helped them since," Jon said. "They've had to help themselves."

"So?"

"You'll have to help yourselves, too. I believe that the best way for you to do that is to join with us."

"Join the Wildlings! Are you joking?"

"No, I'm not. I joined the Wildings, didn't I? They were the only people who accepted me, and helped me. And they've been good to me. You can do the same."

"Why should we do that?"

"Because nobody else is offering, that's why! The Six Kingdoms isn't, and the North isn't. You don't have enough men to recover on your own, and you're up to your eyeballs in debt. I'm suggesting to you that you join the Far North. Otherwise, you'll be scratching out a wretched living here until the last man of you dies. What sort of future is that?"

The room was silent.

"We'd be oathbreakers," someone said.

"No one else has kept their oaths to you," Jon pointed out. He wondered suddenly if he was talking about the Night's Watch or himself. "You can crumble to nothing, or you can take charge of your own fates. You're going to have to make changes, because things have changed. The Wall has little value to anyone now. But you still have land."

"But no people."

"That's what I mean about changes. There's no point in having no wives and no children anymore. You need families. You need financing in order to outfit yourselves for a new life. You need someone to pay your debts."

"And you'd do it?"

"We'd do it."

They debated the issue for the next three days, and at the end of the third night, the Night's Watch agreed to ally themselves with their ancient enemies. The vote was unanimous.


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19:

_Present time._

Arya surprised herself by enjoying teaching. The spear wives were a lively lot, and curious; they chatted happily with her about her experiences in battle, and their own. They also learned their lessons quickly and well, which gave her a feeling of accomplishment.

Brienne took charge of teaching the spear wives about riding and the care of horses, and she, too, seemed pleased at the progress made by her pupils. But Arya also noticed that Brienne seemed rather enervated during and after the lessons, and during one of the classes, she collapsed. Hjordis, who was among the students, darted forward, and knelt beside her. "You," she said to Arya, "run and fetch Oona, _now_, and don't hang about while you do it!"

When Arya burst into the hospice in the town, she discovered Oona in the adjoining walled garden, harvesting plants. There were three small children with her, running and playing on the paths in between the raised beds of medicinal herbs. When Oona heard about Brienne, she wiped her hands quickly on her apron, seized her medical kit, and rose to follow Arya. "I'll go, but you stay here with the children. I don't have anyone else to mind them just now."

Arya was not pleased, but Oona gave her no chance to argue. She dashed from the garden, leaving Arya staring awkwardly at the children. There were three of them, a girl of perhaps six years and two younger boys. "Hullo," Arya said finally. She knew nothing about children, and truth be told, had no desire to learn anything.

"Hullo," the little girl said. The small boys said nothing.

"Do you have a name?" Arya asked her, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Siegelunde," the child said.

"Lord!" said Arya. "That's unkind!"

She could see that the child did not fully understand this, but had garnered enough information to determine that Arya had just insulted her. She scowled, and the little boys, taking their lead from her, scowled, too.

Arya felt helpless. "What do you want to do?" she asked Siegelunde.

"I don't want to do _anything_," the child said, with an air of offended majesty. "Except watch you go 'way."

"That's nasty of you," Arya said, rather offended. _I'm not that bad_.

"You're rude," Siegelunde responded, crossing her small arms over her chest and turning her back. Arya felt that there was strong possibility that she was outmatched against this stubborn, if tiny, creature.

"I have to stay," Arya explained. "I promised Oona I'll watch you."

"Watch us do what?" Siegelunde said, eyes flashing.

"Whatever you were doing when I came in."

Siegelunde took the two small boys in hand and plopped them on a spread-out blanket. She then plunked herself down beside them, and gave Arya a glare. "Go 'way," she said. "We don't need you."

"You weren't doing that when I came in," Arya said. "You were running on the paths."

Siegelunde, with an air of exaggerated patience, lay down on the blanket, and closed her eyes, obviously feigning nap time. The boys immediately imitated her. _She's got them trained, and no mistake. I'll have to ask her how she does it.  
_

Next Arya tried asking questions. The names of the boys? (no answer), did they like Oona? (no answer), did they want to race her from one end of the garden to the other? (Siegelunde did pop an eye open at this offer, but it was only a momentary lapse on her part.)

"How old are you?" Arya was now desperate.

"She's five," another voice said, and Arya turned to see an older woman in the doorway.

"I know you," Arya said. "I met you at the hospice in the Harbour, didn't I, but I forget your name."

"Gytha," the woman said.

"That's right - Gytha," Arya said. "I remember it now. Can you look after the children? Ser Brienne has fallen ill, and I'd like to go to her and see if I can help."

Gytha looked amused. "There's nothing _you_ can help her with," she said.

Arya bristled. "You don't know that."

"I do know that, Arya Stark. I know more than you, because you can't ever seem to see what's right in front of you."

Arya huffed, and Gytha laughed. "What do you think, my sweetlings?" she said to the children, who had gathered around her. The three of them beamed up at her.

"Obviously, they agree with you," Arya said, with a lopsided smile. "There's no accounting for tastes."

"I always knew that they were bright," Gytha said fondly, ruffling the hair of the older boy. He smiled back at her.

"What's wrong with Brienne, then?"

"Not your business, and not anything I'm prepared to discuss with you. Ask her if you want to know."

Arya rolled her eyes. "You're as bad as Hjordis and Oona," she said.

Gytha swept the smaller boy into her arms, and led the other two children indoors. "You come too," she said to Arya. "And wait with us. Let the poor woman have some privacy."

"She's not going to have any privacy at all in that gaggle of spear-wives," Arya pointed out as she followed Gytha inside.

"Hjordis and Oona will handle that," Gytha said. She found a basket of toys for the children, and they dove into them with gusto.

"Whose children are they?" Arya asked idly, as she and Gytha watched them. "One of the spear wives?"

"No. Siegelunde is Hjordis' daughter; the boys belong to Oona."

Arya was surprised. "What are they doing working here then, if they've got children?"

Gytha shrugged. "They're both trained healers," she said. "Are we to be deprived of their skills just because they have children?"

Arya had not thought of it that way. "Aren't they married?" she ventured.

Gytha laughed. "We have very different notions of marriage here," she said. "The community is responsible for the children, no matter who their parents happen to be."

"I hadn't seen the children here before," Arya said.

"The older women of the town care for the children generally," Gytha said. "When their mothers can't, or have work of their own to do. In this case, though, they were attending your lessons."

Arya nodded. She sat down and watched as Gytha brewed tea, now a great delicacy in the rest of the continent, but readily available in the Far North because of their trading fleets. She produced floury baps and milk for the children from a milk-safe. The children greeted this flourish with great satisfaction.

The tea revived Arya, and she tried to use the time to draw out her companion. She had little success. Gytha was a tall woman with golden brown hair - greying a little now - and eyes of the same shade. Arya could place neither her appearance nor her very slight accent. Her manner was not typical for a Westerosi woman, either.

She noticed that Gytha was studying her just as closely.

"What do you see?" she asked half-facetiously.

Gytha smiled. "A young woman who has experienced great pain, and acquired little wisdom."

Arya smiled right back at her. "And I see an older woman who has experienced nothing at all, and pretends to all that she has."

"A pity your brains aren't a match for your courage," Gytha responded calmly, sipping her tea. "If they were, nothing could stop you."

Arya laughed. "I shall take my unintelligent self off then, since I seem to be boring you."

"Oh, you don't _bore_ me, exactly, Arya Stark, though I must admit that you are deeply exasperating," Gytha said.

Siegelunde now appeared beside Gytha, and indicated her hearty agreement with this sentiment. "She's rude," she said, pointing at Arya. She stuck out her tongue for good measure.

"There are definitely times," Arya said with a grimace, "when I'm glad I'm childless."

"Your unborn children undoubtedly thank you for it, too, I would guess," Gytha said, smiling at Siegelunde.

Arya had a sudden feeling of remorse. _Is this how my mother felt about me? I fear it is, and I can see now exactly why she did._

"Never fear," she said. "As soon as my brother answers my letter, I'll be out of here."

There was a momentary flicker in Gytha's eyes - was it pity? - Arya could not tell - that distracted her. Well, that, and the fact that Gytha didn't ask her what she meant. _She knows about the letter, then. _

She was about to enquire about _that_, when there was a shriek from outside. She noticed that all three children were now gone from the room, and jumped up.

"They're all right," Gytha said lightly.

But Arya went to the door. She saw that the children were sitting on the front step in a row, facing Jon, who was kneeling in front of them. He was dusting Siegelunde's chin with a yellow flower.

"Hah!" he said, inspecting his handiwork. "You _do_ like butter!" Siegelunde shrieked again, this time with laughter.

Jon saw Arya standing in the doorway, and winked at her. He then proceeded to do the same butter-test trick with the boys. They, too, were delighted.

Watching him with the children, Arya marvelled at his unfailing patience. _My father was like that. He listened, and he didn't mock nor scold like Mother did._

"Have you been getting acqainted with Arya?" Jon asked Siegelunde.

Siegelunde grimaced. "No!"

"She's nice when you get to know her," Jon said, looking up. "Aren't you, Arya?"

"Not so you'd notice," said Arya. "I don't like children any more than they like me, either."

"Don't pay any attention to her," Jon said to Siegelunde. "She's just cranky today." Siegelunde giggled.

Arya grinned. "I'm cranky all days," she admitted. "How like Father you are, Jon!"

Jon blinked. "What makes you say that, Arya?"

"Just your way with children. You should go ahead and have some of your own."

She regretted saying anything at all when Jon's good humour immediately disappeared. Usually only mention of Daenerys Targaryen caused such a lowering of his mood. She immediately changed the subject, telling him of Brienne's collapse. His reaction surprised her.

"Has anyone told Tormund?" he asked sharply.

"I assume Hjordis or Oona sent for him," Gytha said. "They're both with her now."

Jon turned on his heel. The children went after him. "Stay with Gytha, younglings," he said, but the children clung to him.

Gytha came forward and gently disengaged the children from his cloak. "Jon will see you later," she said, shepherding the reluctant threesome before her, and back into the house. Arya ran after Jon, who was already half way across the square.

She overtook him, and together they hurried through the streets of the town. They discovered only a few of the spear-wives left at the teaching site; they reported that the lesson had been cancelled. They also told Jon and Arya that Brienne had been carried to her quarters.

The first person they saw there was Hjordis, who was trying, without much success, to calm Tormund down.

"Look, she's asleep! You don't want to disturb her, do you?"

As it turned out, that's exactly what Tormund wanted to do. Hjordis was having none of it, and the argument was becoming heated.

Oona came out of Brienne's bedchamber, closed the door quietly behind her, and then hissed: "Be quiet, the both of you!"

This allowed Hjordis and Tormund to forget their differences, and turn as one on Oona. Arya thought things might have gotten worse from there, had Jon not intervened. "How is she?" he asked.

"Resting," Oona said, turning to him. "She should be fine," she then said to Tormund. "Calm down, and stop making a twat of yourself."

"Can you give him something to calm him?" Jon asked her in an undervoice. "He needs it, I think."

Oona inspected Tormund, and then nodded, and went to a nearby table where her medicines were laid out. She started mixing one of them with some water.

"There was no miscarriage, you great fool," said Hjordis. "But she needs to rest and eat more."

"Miscarriage?" Arya said blankly.

They all stared at her as if she had just grown horns.


	20. Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20:

_Four years ago_.

Jon expected trouble in integrating the Wildlings and the remains of the Watch, and he was, alas, not wrong. The Watch was suspicious of the Wildings, and expected them to turn on them when they got what they wanted; the Wildings considered the Watch a bunch of ungrateful Southrons. So Jon tended to keep them apart unless absolutely necessary.

He made an exception for Ser Denys Mallister, whom he greatly respected. The Wildlings, despite their disdain for the Watch, felt the same way, and treated him politely, to Jon's great relief. When Jon explained his full intentions to the Lord Commander, he was surprised to note a flash of enthusiasm.

"I like that idea!" he exclaimed, happily. Jon realized that presiding over the complete decline of the Watch had been a miserable experience for the last Lord Commander, and the prospect of a genuine future for his men energized him. And through him, the remains of his command. He told Jon that that the remaining hardcore criminals had deserted the Watch in the aftermath of the War against the White Walkers. What was left were career men, unfortunates, and people with no other visible choice. But he assured Jon that they would be worthwhile members of any community.

Jon took him at his word, and mapped out in detail his plans for the Wall, the Gift, and the Queen's Gift. They would start in the East with Eastwatch-by-the Sea. All that was left of it now was a heap of crumbling stones, but Jon felt that even that circumstance had an upside; it would allow them to rebuild it properly, and to their current needs. "It needs to be built for trade, but also for defense," Jon said. "We'll expand the Harbour and the warehouses, but also make sure the castle itself is fortified and can be defended."

"Will that be its only function?" Ser Denys asked, his brow furrowed.

"No," said Jon. "The most important thing that the Watch did at Eastwatch was to police piracy in the area. Cotter Pyke can resume command of it once it's rebuilt. Ships will be provided for that purpose, as well as for trade. We've recruited the Skagosi to our side as well."

Ser Denys gasped. "The Skagosi?" The Watch had fought an ongoing battle with the Skagosi.

"None other," said Jon with a smile. "It won't be easy, but I believe that they're now willing to stop their less interesting habits, and fall in with us."

"Why would they do that?" the Lord Commander asked.

"We've jettisoned their priests, for one thing, and made a deal with their landed Houses, for another. They're tired of their reputation."

"That would certainly reduce the piracy," Ser Denys said, tapping the tips of his thin fingers on the table.

"Not as much as you would think," Jon said. "Hardhome is now attracting attention from Essosi pirates and some brigands from the Six Kingdoms as well. The Ibbenese are also making threatening noises. They don't like competition, to say the least of it. We want to keep all of these people away from the Far North and out of our shipping lanes. I think the best way to do that is to have armed escorts, and that's where the Watch comes in."

Ser Denys' eyebrows went up. He looked intigued, to Jon's relief.

"We'll retain the Watch as an organization," Jon explained, "but its aims will be different. Also its rules."

"How so?" Ser Denys wanted to know.

"It will guard and police the people of the Far North and the old Watch lands. You will remain Lord Commander of the Watch, but celibacy will not be required of brothers. In fact, we will encourage the men to marry if possible. We want service in the Watch to be an honourable and respected profession, one that can have families that remain Watchmen for generations, and are proud of it. They will be properly paid, and their families will be cared for if they die, or are injured."

Ser Denys looked startled. "Where will we be stationed?" he asked Jon.

"Eastwatch-by-the-sea for one," Jon said. "Castle Black for another, and the Shadow Tower, for the third. Those three castles are just to start, mind you. We intend to revive all the Wall castles eventually. They will serve as outposts at first, but I'm hoping that they will become villages, and then towns."

"And the Wall itself, will you tear it down?"

"No, not at all. We'll repair it, and then it will become a road. A dozen mounted knights can travel the top of it side-by-side, or so I was always told. Why not take advantage of that? It means safe travel for traders and citizens. That's important because the tribes of the Frostfangs are cannibals, and will have to be brought to heel. That's only one danger, but if we secure the Wall, we'll have control of trade, and we'll be able to control those Wildlings, Northerners and other people who won't obey the law."

"The Wall was built by magic," Ser Denys pointed out. "How will we repair it?"

"Leave that to me," Jon said.

Ser Denys regarded Jon doubtfully. "These plans are so very ambitious," he said, delicately. Jon knew that what he really thought was that the plans were actually batshit crazy, but he was entirely too polite to say so.

"They are that," Jon agreed, "and perhaps too ambitious, I'll admit. We'll never be able to do everything. But it's better to have too much ambition than too little, don't you agree?"

Ser Denys did agree, though again doubtfully. But he was enticed by the idea of the Watch assuming a new role instead of dying out, as Jon had hoped he would be. They began to draw up a new charter for the Watch, in which, in exchange for its lands, and the payment of its debts, each member would be granted lands of their own in the vicinity of the Wall castle of their choice, and the equipment and monies to help start their own holdfasts. They would be allowed to marry, and their lands would go to their wives or children at their deaths. If they had neither, however, the lands would revert to the Watch, unless their next-of-kin was a Watchman. If the Watch requested their services, they would be obliged to provide them, but the amount of time would be time-limited except in emergencies. If they were uninterested in farming, then they would serve full-time as rangers, builders, sailors or administrators, with wages and housing for themselves and their families.

Ser Denys brought in the remaining senior men of the Watch for consultation. No one liked everything set out in the new charter; and so some changes were made. Eventually, however, the remaining members of the Night's Watch declared themselves independant of the Six Kingdoms and of the North, and agreed to join the Far North (The word 'Wildling' was not mentioned.) The Watch would still be elective, but the election of Lord Commanders had to be approved by the Free Folk.

This last rider caused more trouble than any other. Neither the Watch nor the Wildings trusted each other yet, and perhaps never would; but Jon was hopeful. Finally they agreed that more than half of the Free Folk had to approve, and the new Charter was signed. Jon breathed a sigh of relief.

They started on Eastwatch-by-the-Sea the next day. Cotter Pyke was delighted to be back in his old command, and had a host of suggestions, many of them very good ones. Jon thought that the Watch had become so hidebound that it had wasted the abilities of men such as Pyke, and resolved to give him a chance to shine. He seized the opportunity.

Jon and Tormund were pleased by Pyke's enthusiasm. He produced detailed plans for the building of a new Eastwatch. (Jon later discovered that he had them drawn up a decade earlier in the hope that the Watch would replace the old castle, but in vain.) Like Hardhome, he wanted the Harbour enclosed, to protect it from raiders. He also wanted watchtowers situated several miles south of Eastwatch, to allow for quick notice of trouble. He wanted round towers, instead of the old-fashioned square ones. Jon and Tormund had recruited a master builder from Essos, an older man named Helder Mahone, who was skilled in the latest building techniques. He and Cotter Pyke excitedly tossed ideas around. Once they got started, the work went quicker than anyone had expected. The design impressed everyone, and Jon and Tormund decided to retain Mahone for the renovations to Castle Black. Once the building of Eastwatch was underway, the plans for Castle Black were next.

Mahone cast a shrewd eye over Castle Black, and soon the sound of pickhammers echoed in the cold air. He also looked over the state of the Kingsroad, and warned Ser Denys and Jon it needed to be upgraded, and soon, or it might deteriorate beyond repair. But Jon knew that meant an agreement with Sansa about the section that ran through the North, and that far he was not prepared to go, or at least not just yet. The Kingsroad had been important for trade, true, but it also granted safe passage to armies.

Jon was surprised to discover from Ser Denys that the remaining Night's Watch had arranged for a number of women, recruited from the South, to travel to White Harbour. The object was matrimony.

"I didn't think they'd have any luck at that," he commented to Tormund. "Most Southrons don't want to go North under any circumstances." Tormund shrugged, but Ser Denys said seriously, "I wrote to my elder sister, who married in the Vale, and told her our circumstances. There's a lot of widows and orphans in the Vale; in every part of the South, in fact, given the number of wars we've suffered. She contacted my younger sister, who lives in the Stormlands, as well, and they've both spread the word. We've had a considerable response from people who want or need a new start. The Far North is better than starving to death in the Southern kingdoms."

So it was that a flotilla of ships from Hardhome set sail for White Harbour. They were greeted there on the docks by at least two hundred and fifty people, and not all of them women nor children. The Watch had its first voluntary recruits in literally years. Apparently the Lord Commander's sisters had also spread the word that celibacy was no longer required, families were welcome, and that wages would be paid, which led to a upsurge in interest.

The men turned out to be the type the Watch used to attract, Jon thought. Solid men whom war had rendered homeless or landless, or both, by bad luck, not fecklessness. Men with wives and children. There were also widows with and without children, looking to attract a husband. Single women had also answered the call, more than the remaining Night's Watch could manage, but Jon was mindful that men still outnumbered women in Hardhome, and by a considerable degree.

"You are all most welcome," he told them. "We plan to take you to Eastwatch-by-the-sea, further up the coast, a Watch castle which we are rebuilding. The men of the Night's Watch will be there waiting for us."

Jarl was in charge of the flotilla, and he made sure that they made good time to Eastwatch. Jon could see relief in the eyes of the recruits when the castle came into view. Though still being finished, it was an impressive sight. The watchtowers that Cotter Pyke had insisted upon had been built, and had done their job; the men of the Watch were waiting for them in the Harbour, dressed as formally as possible.

The Lord Commander was front and centre. He stepped forward, and Jon went to greet him, whispering the good news in his ear as he did.

He smiled. "I understand that as well as brides for our men, we have some new recruits for the Watch," he said. "I bid you welcome to the lands of the Far North, brothers, and hope you will prosper here."

They dined that night in the finished Great Hall. Helder Mahone, intrigued by Jon's tales of Winterfell, and how it was heated, had experimented with hot water, and great tiled stoves. The room was pleasantly warm, and lit by several great fireplaces.

Tormund and Jon sat watching the company. At first, their interactions with the Watchmen were cautious. As the night wore on, they mingled more readily.

"Look at that!" Tormund chortled, digging his elbow in Jon's ribs.

Jon saw that Ser Denys was seated beside a grey-haired, but still comely woman, talking with great animation, while she smiled and nodded.

"The old devil!" said Tormund. "How old is he, anyway?"

"Obviously not too old," Jon said, amused. "I'll take it as a good omen."


	21. Chapter 21

Sorry about the delay, folks. Fraught times at the turn of the year, and things have only become worse since then. However, since we are now on lockdown, I had some spare time, so I have reread the story and taken it up again. I am also rereading "Baker Street" to do the same with it; it's just taken a whole lot longer.

Don't take any chances, folks...please stay home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

_Present time_.

"Brienne's expecting a baby," Oona said.

Arya cried: "She didn't tell _me_ that!"

Oona gave her a look. "She didn't tell _anyone_ that," she said. "But we all knew it. Even Tormund."

Tormund, who was sitting at the table, his head in his hands, looked up. "Was that a shot at me?" he muttered.

"No, Tormund, it was a compliment," Oona said. "For a male, that is."

"You've got a tongue on you like an adder, Oona," Tormund said.

"You should be so lucky," said Oona, stone-faced, so that Arya wasn't absolutely sure she meant what it sounded like. Thought to judge by the smirks on Hjordis' and Jon's faces, she wasn't alone in that thought.

"Like many people who are very strong physically, she doesn't look after herself enough," Hjordis said. "So from now on, Arya, you're to keep an eye on her."

"What do _I_ know about pregnancy?" Arya cried. "Nothing! I didn't even know she _was_ pregnant!" _Hjordis didn't call me Lady Arya, either. I hate being called that, but I resent *not* being called that just as much. It's very strange._

"Ignorance is no excuse," Oona said, with a sigh. "You'll learn the basics from us, and a midwife, and you will make yourself useful. I don't want to hear anymore whinging about it, either, not now. We all have to help her. You'll also have to take over the riding instruction."

"How am I supposed to do all that?" Arya cried.

"Welcome to the real world," Hjordis muttered. "Most people do 'all that' as you put it, and more, just to eat."

Arya looked to Jon for support; and he looked back at her, eyebrows raised. _No support there. Everyone seems to think I'm a spoiled brat. It's totally unfair._

"And what if _I_ collapse?"

"You're easily replaceable," Hjordis said.

"Nice of you to say so!" Arya said, irritated.

"Any time," Hjordis snapped back.

At this point, Jon did intervene. "Arya - everybody's worried."

"You think I'm not?" Arya all but wailed.

"I know you are," Jon said gently. "We're all fond of Brienne, aren't we?"

"Yes," Arya said, sniffling suddenly. "I want her to be well."

"We all do, because she's a remarkably good person. One of the few any of us knows." Tormund made a choking sound.

Arya glanced at him briefly and then nodded.

"Because your mother entrusted the care of you and Sansa to her, she will accept your presence better than she will most of us." Jon paused delicately.

"I'll take over the riding instruction," Tormund said, "if you'll just keep an eye on her, little wolf."

"I'll spell you on that, Tormund," Jon said. "Half and half." Tormund nodded.

"Hjordis and Oona will teach you what to look for and how to make things easier for her," Jon said. "It won't be light task, because she finds it difficult to admit that she might ever need help. We trust you to be patient. And vigilant."

"I will, Jon, I promise!"

"I trust you, little sister," Jon said, coming over to give her a hug. "Brienne needs our protection just now. We need to work together, and _you_ have to admit it if you need some help, too."

"I'll call you if I do, Jon, right away!"

"Not just me," Jon said. "Tormund and Hjordis and Oona, too."

To Arya's surprise, Hjordis and Oona, both rather flushed, then came over and hugged her as well. Arya thought that she might have even heard a muttered 'sorry' from the former. Or perhaps not. Tormund patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

As Jon had predicted, it didn't prove to be an easy task. When Arya saw Brienne the next morning, she found that she was thoroughly humiliated by her collapse. She had tried to get up, but found herself too dizzy to rise. Arya pushed her back into her bed, and snarled: "Stop that!"

"I have to get up," Brienne muttered.

"No, you don't!" Arya said.

"The riding lessons -!"

"Tormund and Jon have taken over that, don't worry about it."

"They have other, better things to do!"

"I'll help them, Brienne, I promise," Arya pleaded. "Just rest."

Brienne relaxed back on the bed, but her anxiety level still appeared high.

"So when did you plan to tell me about this?" Arya asked her, folding her arms.

Brienne blushed a brilliant red and muttered - "I didn't know myself."

"Well, that explains a lot," Arya said. "What about your courses?"

"They're never very regular," Brienne said.

"And that explains more," Arya said, as cheerfully as she could. "I take it Tormund is the lucky man?"

Brienne turned her face to the wall, and said nothing. There were tears in her eyes.

"Brienne," Ayra said. "What's the matter?"

"I remember what he said to me, the last time I saw him," Brienne said.

"Tormund?"

"No, not him."

"You mean...Jaime Lannister?"

"Yes. He said: 'I don't love you. Nobody _could_ love you.'"

"Charming," muttered Arya.

"He was right," Brienne said.

"Bullshit!"

"Arya! What would Lady Catelyn say if she could hear you?"

"I suspect she'd say "Bullshit!" too. At least, I hope she would."

Brienne gave a watery laugh. "I can't imagine that Lady Catelyn would say any such thing."

"Why should you take Jaime Lannister's word for anything, in any case? He cuckolded his goodbrother, sired three children on his twin sister, and shoved my eight-year-old brother out a window with the intent of killing him, thus starting a chain of events that ended laying waste to a whole contintent. Some knight!"

"He saved my life," Brienne said. "And he saved King's Landing from Aerys."

"The Lannisters are like old eggs, if you ask me. Probably still edible, but they certainly do stink. Tyrion's just the same."

Brienne laughed a little, and Arya's heart lifted. "Tormund's a good man," she said. "He thinks you're special, and he's right."

Brienne's face clouded. "It's not fair to him," she muttered.

"In what way?" Arya asked.

"He thinks I love him," Brienne said.

"Don't you?"

"I don't think so," Brienne said.

"My parents were complete strangers when they got married," Arya pointed out. "My mother wanted to marry my Uncle Brandon, and my father wanted to marry Ashara Dayne. They spent just one night together after their wedding, before my father had to leave to fight in the War. My brother Rob was the result. They were happy, though, despite everything. They had to become aquainted first, of course."

Brienne's mouth twitched a little. "Of course."

Arya sat down on the bed. "You know what I mean, Brienne. Don't decide until you get aquainted. You may have put the cart before the horse, but that doesn't mean the ride necessarily has to be bumpy."

Brienne laughed this time. "I see," she said.

"Check him out and see what kind of father he is, for starters," Arya said.

"What kind of father he is?" Brienne repeated, staring at her. "He's got children?"

"Two little girls, I think," Arya said. "I heard Oona say that they're being cared for by their grandmother."

"I didn't know that," Brienne said, rather bewildered. "He didn't tell me."

"Ah, the prefidy of men," Arya muttered.

But by way of distracting Brienne, she decided to arrange a visit by Tormund's daughters to her bedside. A few days later, Hjordis delivered them to Arya, whispering that their grandmother would pick them up in two hours.

They were a pale, skinny pair, their brilliant red curly hair constituting the only vibrant thing about them. One was eight years old, Hjordis told her, and the other was seven. They stared mutely at Arya. Hjordis did not know their formal names: "Tormund calls them Big and Little."

Big and Little were then left in Arya's care. They accepted this with ill-grace or maybe it was just plain terror; Arya could not really tell. She tried to take them by the hand - they pulled away. They might have escaped into the street if Arya hadn't beaten them to the door first, and bolted it firmly. Baulked, they then decided to scream, loudly and in unison. Arya marvelled at the amount of noise emanating from two such spindly little creatures. That and their hair were their only resemblance to their father.

"Shut up!" Arya yelled, without any noticeable effect.

The interior door creaked open, and Brienne came through it, blinking a little at the scene before her. "What's all the noise?" she asked Arya, mildly enough.

Both Big and Little's mouths fell open at the sight of her, and their shrieks died on their tongues.

Arya didn't blame them. Brienne was wearing a dark-coloured bedrobe, which did nothing to disguise her imposing height and the breadth of her shoulders. She was also, true to her profession, wearing a sword. The children ran to the door and Big hoisted Little on her shoulders so that she could reach the bolt. Alas for this attempt at escape, as much as she tried, Little was not strong enough to slide it open.

"Who is this?" Brienne asked Arya, eyebrows raised.

"Tormund's daughters," Arya said, wishing she had not thought of the notion in the first place. "I said that you had to determine what sort of father he is, didn't I?"

Brienne bit her lip, and looked as though she would like to laugh, but didn't dare do it, given Arya's stormy expression. "How...thoughtful of you," she said.

"Don't give me that," Arya snapped. "It wasn't thoughtful at all. It was a damned stupid idea, as you can see."

"They don't seem too happy, that's for certain," Brienne said, observing Little, who was still making desperate attempts to move the bolt. "Perhaps we could feed them? Would that help, do you think?"

Arya hoped so; luckily she had laid in some supplies for the children, and went over to the table to unpack them. Brienne sat down, which seemed to ease the children's terror of her somewhat. They still huddled at the door, staring at her with wild eyes.

"They're so...small," she said to Arya.

Arya laughed. "Not their voices," she said. "And really, they're actually tall for their ages. They're just terribly scrawny."

"So I see," Brienne said.

Arya began brewing chocolate, and the children's noses twitched at the smell. "I've got fresh cream to go with it," she said to them, with a weedle in her voice, hoping for a positive reaction.

She didn't get it. Big scowled and Little shivered.

Brienne watched as Arya set out the food: broth with onions and rice in it, a roasted chicken, thickly buttered fresh bread, fruit from the greenhouse, and cups of chocolate. Arya then sat down and proceeded to carve the chicken.

"I guess we're going to have to eat all this food by ourselves," Arya observed casually to Brienne. She looked at the children. "Unless you'd like to help us with it, perhaps?"

Neither child responded.

With some difficulty, Brienne got to her feet and went slowly over to them. They stared at her, too mesmerized to flee.

"Come along," she said, firmly, taking each one by their arms, and leading them to the table.

They sat down, staring at the food, but not touching it.

"Start with the broth," Brienne said, pouring it into two small bowls.

The children picked up the bowls, as Brienne indicated they should, but they sat staring at her until she drank hers, at which they downed their portions in a gulp. The chicken and bread went the same way, as did the fruit; then they drank their cups of chocolate. As long as Brienne ate or drank her serving first, they were content to imitate her.

"What's your name?" Brienne asked the elder child, after a pause.

"Big," said Big, in a voice to match, startling Arya. "And she's Little," pointing to her sister.

"Pleased to meet you both," Brienne said, making no comment upon the absurdity of their names. "I'm Ser Brienne of Tarth. And this is Lady Arya Stark."

Big nodded, and when Arya poured her a second cup of chocolate, drank it. She seemed to be relaxing a bit. But Little was still shivering in between courses, and holding on tightly to her sister's hand.

"Is Little all right?" Briene asked Big.

"She's just cold," Big said casually, reaching for more bread.

Arya reached over to finger Little's clothing, and discovered it was quite thin. She raised her brows and looked at Brienne.

"Get my cloak, would you please, Arya?" Brienne murmured. "It's in the other room."

The cloak was fur lined and when wrapped around both children, gave Little some relief; she stopped shivering.

"Who looks after them?" Brienne asked in an undervoice.

Big thought this question was addressed to her. "Grammy," she said brightly.

"Is that your da's mother or your ma's?" Arya asked.

"Ma's," said Big, stuffing a piece of bread with chicken, and giving it to her sister.

"You don't live with your Da, then?"

"No," said Big. "Grammy says not. She says Da is a bad man."

"Does she?" Brienne said, without infection.

"Yah," said Big. "She does. She says he can't visit us at home. He comes round to the school instead."

"I see," Brienne said.

"Why does Grammy say your Da is evil?" Arya asked.

"He kills all his wives, Grammy says," Big answered, in a noncommital tone. Arya could not tell if Big understood all of what she was saying or not.

"From what Hjordis said, dear old Grammy is coming to pick them up in less than an hour," Arya said to Brienne. "So we are goint to get to meet her."

"Good," said Brienne ominously. "I'm looking forward to it,"


	22. Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22:

_Four years ago_.

And it was a good omen, though there were the inevitable storms along the way. There were tensions between the Wildings and the Watch; tensions between the new Watch recruits and the older Watch veterans; tensions between the Wildings and the Southern castaways, and tensions between everyone else and the Skagosi. Jon wondered why his days should be consumed by constant negotiations between the disguntled parties. It had never been among his strengths in his term as Lord Commander, but he acquired some skill at it in the subsequent years because he simply had to.

And he needed that skill more and more, because recruitment in the South went far better than Jon had expected. Nor did he expect the Reach to be one of the better sources. Those recruits told him hair-raising stories of the rapacity of Ser Bronn of the Blackwater (aka Bronn the Sellsword). Jon believed all of it, and wondered why Tyrion allowed the richest Kingdom in the South to be despoiled in that way. Bronn must know a lot of information detrimental to the Lord of Casterly Rock, and be prepared to use it. Jon wished he had that information, but such speculation was idle, he supposed.

Yet information was vital, and Jon felt the need for a Master of Whisperers. In particular, he felt that he needed to know about Ibben, which caused him many sleepless nights. The Ibbenese had begun to harry the ships of the Far North, resenting their competition for their traditional markets. So far, the damage had been minimal, but Jon could see that it would not remain so, especially once the Ibbenese discovered that the Far North had started to build whaling ships, previously the latter's sole perogative. The fact that they used a pirated Ibbenese template wouldn't help

Then there was Bravos. Jon had no illusions there, either; though the Iron Bank was profiting from its trading arrangement with the Far North, if the Ibbenese offered them a better deal, they'd take it. They'd certainly make the Ibbenese pay a premium for defaulting on their previous loan with the Iron Bank, but they'd take it. Business was business, and profit always prevailed. It would mean that the Far North would have to outbid Ibben, lessening profits. Jon didn't like that idea at all.

And the Ibbenese might get there soon, Jon feared. Weighing the odds, he suspected that the Shadow Council would try intimidation of the ships of the Far North first. It was cheaper, and would save face with their electors. He just didn't know where or when.

He was still considering the problem when another shipload of recruits landed at Eastwatch. Jon and Tormund were there to meet them, along with Cotter Pyke (who was representing the the Watch), and Javier and Arley (who were representing the Southron recruits). They were only expecting one ship, but to their surprise, there were three of them. Two ships were loaded with Watch recruits and their families. Cotter Pyke was delighted, and welcomed them warmly. The other ship carried immigrants from the Six Kingdoms, mostly women and children, but with the occasional intact family, which Jon was pleased to note. Javier and Arley welcomed them according to their origins. Then Jon announced that the Watchmen would stay at Eastwatch until they were sorted, and the immigrants would go on by ship to Hardhome.

Tormund stayed at Eastwatch to take care of some business with Pyke; Jon, Javier and Arley boarded the immigrant ship for the trip back to Hardhome. Due to a strong, favouring wind, it looked as though it would not take long, and Jon passed the time by getting to know the new recruits and the immigrants. He had worked his way through several of them, when he encountered someone he had definitely not expected to see.

And there she was, tall and imposing, in a simple grey wool dress, and blue shawl, with glinting eyes and a half-smile, half-smirk on her face. "Well met, Jon Snow," she said.

Jon stared at her. She was perhaps the last person he expected to see, barring the King of the Six Kingdoms, and the Queen of the North. She was certainly the last person he wanted to see, which, considering the competition, was saying something.

"You seem surprised to see me, youngling," she said, crossing her arms. "Didn't you expect us to meet again?"

Jon hesitated. "It's not that," he said. "I knew that we would, of course. Just not so soon."

She laughed. "You mean that you'd forgotten about it."

"No, I didn't. Not at all," Jon said. Though he had tried to, of course. Or begun to hope that _she'd_ forgotten it,

"You've a bargain to fulfill," she said. "Remember?"

"I remember that, yes," Jon said.

"Good," she said with a nod. "I'm glad to hear it. Having second thoughts, are you?"

Jon's chin went up. "No."

"That's good, too, youngling, because it's too late for that. We'll talk about the details later, in Hardhome."

She turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Jon glanced around, but in the boatload of happy, noisy people, all relieved that their long voyage was over, no one had been paying any attention to their conversation. He was relieved by that; but the encounter, so unexpected, startled him.

Though he searched through the crowd to see where she'd gone, he did not see her anywhere during the rest of the voyage. Jon wondered if she'd been a mirage, but feared that it was too easy a solution to his problem. He'd been born under a bad star, hadn't he? And perhaps his luck would always match it.

There was a welcome feast the next day at Hardhome for the new arrivals, and Jon tried hard to concentrate on that, and not search for her in the crowd. He did see her eventually, though; seated at one of the tables, with a scrawny adolescent girl beside her, dressed in a very similar style. She was talking and gesturing, and the whole table seemed to be listening. Jon closed his eyes briefly, while he wondered what she was saying.

He edged towards the table, trying to not to be too obvious about it. Then he saw that Arley was seated opposite her and he stopped, fading back towards the wall, and eventually out of earshot.

Later he asked Arley what she had said. He shrugged. "She does like the sound of her own voice, that one," was his initial comment. "Why do you ask?" was his second.

"I just thought I recognized her," Jon said. "Though, of course, I might be wrong."

"She's not from the North, from what I can see," Arley said. "Or hear."

"Did she say her name?" Jon asked, as lightly as he could. _I never asked her name, and she never mentioned it, either._

"Gytha, I think she said," Arley said, without much interest.

Jon closed his eyes. _No mirage, then_.

He turned away, and withdrew into the crowd, hoping Gytha had not seen him.

During the next week, Jon avoided the public spaces in Hardhome, in the probably vain hope that Gytha would go away. He did not see her, and gradually began to grow more confident. That confidence lasted until he needed treatment for a cut on his arm, and went to the healers' quarters in the town to get it patched up.

One of the older spearwives had been acting as a healer, and although she had no real training beyond a few folk remedies, she could pour alcohol on wounds, and stitch them up with the best of them. Jon had expected to see her, but it was Gytha who came to the door.

"Ah," she said, "Jon Snow! I thought you'd died and gone to the Seven for all I've seen of you this past week!"

Jon was unmoved. "I'm sure you cared nothing for that," he said dourly.

She crossed her arms. "No, I didn't," she said, without inflection. "I knew we'd meet eventually."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Gytha said, moving back, "Well, come in, then."

Jon suppressed a sudden impulse to flee for his life, and did as she directed.

The quarters, notable for its slapdash untidiness under the reign of the spearwife, was now spotlessly clean, the floors scrubbed, the walls newly whitewashed, the glass windows washed and sparkling. Shelves had been built against the walls to hold supplies, which were stowed away neatly. There were bottles of various types of medicine, carefully labelled, and lined up in precise rows.

"I brought a full kit with me, as you see," Gytha said.

"What happened to Dorrit?" Jon asked.

"The spearwife? She was persuaded to take up a profession for which she had talent. Healing did not appear to be it."

"Are you living here now, then?" Jon knew that there were living quarters in the back of the building.

"Yes. There is still a way to go - I need proper beds, not pallets, for the wards. I asked Arley, and he agreed to have them built for me. I require some decent linens, and a full-time washerwoman to attend to them. And I require more equipment. I have a list for you here. These are the items that can be purchased in White Harbour. This - " here she produced an even longer list - "is what I need from Braavos. That will do for a start. Later I will ask for things from Essos and the Southern Kingdoms, but not just yet. We'll start slowly. However, we desperately need a properly-trained surgeon, and I suggest you recruit one as soon as possible."

Jon inspected the documents, and his brows rose. "And how are we to afford all this?"

"That's your problem, deal with it. But you need proper medical treatment available if you want Hardhome to become a successful port, don't you? Ask your Braavosi friends to find a surgeon for you, then, if you find it beyond your powers."

"I would," Jon said, not looking up from the list, "if I wanted to be spied on."

Gytha laughed. "Well, I take it back, then - you're not completely stupid. Try elsewhere in Essos, then, and make the request anonymous, at least at first."

Jon nodded, and held out his arm. Gytha inspected it, lips pursed. "Careless of you."

He shrugged. She dealt with the wound in an expeditious manner, and he thanked her, with a certain lack of warmth.

"Pouting still, are you? How very childish."

Jon smiled reluctantly. "As you say."

At this point, the scrawny adolescent girl came in with an armful of clean linen. She did not seem surprised at Jon's presence, nor did she even glance at him. She deposited the linens and left, without a word. Since she kept her head down, Jon could not determine too much about her appearance.

Jon stared after her. "Is that her?" he asked.

"Indeed it is," Gytha said.

"Does she know why she's here?"

"Of course she does."

"She doesn't seem too pleased, I have to say."

"She's not; but she'll do her duty."

"Says you," Jon said.

"Says me, yes." There was hard look in Gytha's eyes. _It wasn't easy, then._

Jon wondered what arguments she had used to persuade the girl. "Are you coercing her, then?" he asked.

Gytha gave him her sharp-edged smile. "If you want to know something about her, ask her. I have no objection."

"I'm asking _you_," Jon said.

"You said you weren't having second thoughts," Gytha said lightily.

"I'm not," Jon said.

"It doesn't matter whether you are or not," Gytha said, and here her voice stopped being insinuating and became like steel. "Nor does it matter what _she_ thinks. I have explained to you why this is necessary."

Jon nodded.

"And I did the same for her, I assume you."

"That consoles me," Jon said.

"So, did you find it?" Gytha asked, ignoring his sarcasm.

"Yes," Jon said.

"Good," Gytha smiled at him, while Jon suppressed a shudder at the sight. "When the moon is full, we'll commence the lessons."

Jon stared at her. "Why wait?" he asked.

"Because I need to take a look at it first," Gytha said. "Bring it here tomorrow; we'll look at it together. She needs to see it, too. Did you manage to get any information about it?"

"I have his notes about his experiments," Jon said. "And he also did considerable research on the subject, and I brought that as well."

"That's better," Gytha said, nodding.

She seemed pleased; Jon wished that he could share her satisfaction. He took himself off, though Gytha hardly seemed to notice.

On his way out, he encountered the girl again. She brushed by him without meeting his eyes.

Staring after her, he thought that Gytha's certainty about her co-operation might be optimistic.

Jon closed his eyes momentarily, and began to wish he'd stayed with the Night's Watch.


End file.
